Resident Evil 2: Necropolis
by CaidenWalker -shade1578
Summary: THE SEQUEL. CHAPTER NINE IS NOW UP! Leon must now save Claire from the perverse Chief Brian Irons in the infested police station--and he must do so with only a framing hammer.
1. Prologue

I have recieved a great many requests for the sequel to my previous novel. Though it is not finished, I thought I might give you all a taste of the evil that is to come. Prepare yourselves, this will be a nightmare you won't soon be rid of.

But beware, I strongly urge you to read my first book, as this is the sequel and you will understand little if you choose to read this first. While you may think this follows the video game, it certainly does not.

**Summary**: Leon and the others have barely been able to cope with the aftermath of the incident involving the Spencer Estate. However, after only two months, another seed of evil has been planted, and subtly it has begun to grow. Before anyone can react, all of Raccoon City is caught up in the hellish flames caused by none other then the sinister Umbrella Corporation. Leon, Joseph, as well as two other characters must find their way out of the city. All the while they are hunted by Jessica Trevor, Lisa Trevor's mother who has become insane with a rage that only the death of every human can suffice. However there is another assassin, a soldier who's only purpose is to find Leon Kennedy, the 'Perfect Soldier', and take him dead or alive to the hands of Umbrella.

_"If the suspense doesn't kill you...something else will."_

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**Part I**

**The Precursor to Evil**

Prologue

July 26, 1998. Raccoon Forest.

It was a scarlet sun setting in which the helicopter rode steadily through. Purple and crimson like arteries cut and bleeding wide across the skies. The trees' gnarled branches reached up like black fingers into the red horizon, mourning the loss of the sun, their guardian against the oncoming darkness. It was that very darkness which masked the woods, transforming them into a deep and horrible nightmare. Death, as it were, was nothing more then trickery as opposed to the many other horrid things that had transpired in this accursed place.

At least that is what the infamous Mr. Death thought of it. He sat amongst his comrades in the hull of the chopper, knowing he was the only one relaxed about the mission. He breathed in through his oxygen mask, suctioned to his skin; he could feel its hard plastic and unbreakable metal becoming a part of his face. Its circular, red eyes were his eyes. The every curve of metal welded to metal was his flesh. The skull-like helmet that protected him was his own.

Mr. Death allowed a gaze to pass over the other soldiers. There were only three. Umbrella's military advisors had been wise to send only three others, keep the casualties minimal. After all, they know that in the end it would be only Mr. Death who returned from the mission alive. That is why he had earned the name "Mr. Death". He was the only one who could cheat it and fate on a constant schedule.

"Hunk," called one of the operatives through his own oxygen mask, a rookie, "We're preparing to land just outside the premises as you ordered, sir."

"Good, make it fast and quiet," Mr. Death replied in his deep, croaking voice.

He continued his thoughts. He was the best, of course, only because he had been born and raised to be the best. From birth he was tested and trained. Everything about him was adjusted, sculpted, augmented, and perfected. He was the machine Umbrella needed to sweep away its dirty work and bring back results. And of course, he never failed.

The chopper settled easily with a subtle whir as the winding blades slowly died down, the engine quieting. His team of operatives all looked to him for commands. He smiled behind his mask, knowing that he could see right through theirs into their scared faces. He eyed them, dressed in complete black uniforms, suited heavy with armor and padding. The red-eyed goggles of their masks stared back at him, identical to his.

"Our objectives are simple. Eliminate any remaining carriers, and remove any evidence linking Umbrella to the remains of the Spencer Estate," he spoke monotonously, just as his spirit was, "Any questions?"

"What if there are officials at the scene?" spoke one of the operatives through his mask.

Mr. Death immediately answered by slamming a magazine into his HK G36 Carbine, and cocked it.

"There won't be," he replied grimly.

000

The team all leapt out in single file of the helicopter, Hunk led first. Officer Watkins was the last. When he'd asked the question of any cops being at the mansion, he half expected an answer like that from Hunk. What a self-absorbed prick. The guy was all hardcore, no unique thought. Every time someone had to be "erased", or every time they had to "fix a leak in the system", Hunk came on out of his chambers (where he spent the remainder of his time unless testing was to be done) and they'd brief him, then he'd go.

Watkins had been one of the longest living recruit members for Umbrella's special task unit (U.S.T.U.), but of course that didn't mean shit in the real world. He'd only been there for six months. The thing was, whenever recruits would go on missions with Hunk, everyone died except for the man himself. Well last mission, some small deal to off James Marcus, the scientist responsible for the entire biological warfare department, Watkins had gone in with Hunk and had come back out. Everyone was astounded, especially Watkins. That Hunk guy was quietly furious, and that's kind of what put Watkins on edge now. He was putting a bad vibe on this Hunk guy, and he didn't feel safe about it at all.

They traversed through the forest now, everything gradually becoming darker. As usual Hunk led them, fully aware of anything and everything. All four dressed in black, the only significance out of any of them was Hunk's badge on his right shoulder. Fucker. He was an experiment, nothing more, but he always had his head so far up his ass. Watkins didn't like him; he hated him to be honest. He hated how he stood nearly a foot taller then the rest of them, how he was built like the terminator, and how he didn't even know fear.

Watkins lost all train of thought as they traversed through the woods. Everything closed in on them, wanting to ensnare them in the red skies and black ground. Watkins flipped on his heat scanners for a minute, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of one of the carriers. Nothing the heat sensors could pick up. Nevertheless, He felt that all knowing feeling that they weren't alone. Something was out there.

The way the military advisors had spoke of this mission, it sounded bad. From what Watkins understood, there had been an accident in the lab out here, and now specimens were running free throughout the woods. What was worse, Project Tyrant had been eliminated by what were supposedly police officials who had entered the mansion under investigation under the murders caused by some of the carriers. So now they had to deal with the government. Well whatever, so long as Watkins got the paycheck, he didn't give a rat's ass.

Hunk rose a fist in signal and they all stopped, crouching low into the foliage. There they sat in wait. Watkins examined the surrounding pine trees hovering about them, almost as though they were curious about the group's diminutive figures. Watkins wished for a moment he wasn't forced to wear the damn oxygen mask, so that he could allow his face to feel the fresh, cool air that lingered with the scent of pine. But no, he had to wear complete black from head to toe. And it was damn heavy too. Body armor, extra layers, steel-toed boots. Now Watkins had never seen any of these biological weapons, but how bad could these bastards be? They were just carriers.

Hunk signaled for them to spread out and begin the search. Watkins cocked his carbine rifle and slowly began to descend down a long, sloping hill covered with pine needles and brush. He eyed his comrades, taking note of their positions, and moved on. The light ebbed away, almost completely enveloped by shadow. Everything became very dark very fast, and only the crimson skies above them remained as a weak light source. Hunk had given them specific orders not to turn on any lights, "it will attract the carriers."

Suddenly a distant screeching howl wallowed out into the fog that had begun to roll in about them. Was it a wolf? No way, there was some, raspy, gurgling screech about it that gave it a warped sound. Everyone was silent, unmoving. They listened, and again it came. Closer this time. Almost like a kind of wailing, agonized cry that peaked into a howl. It carried on the wind that blew gently amidst the trees. Watkins began to feel sweat pour from his skin atop his eyebrows and down the middle of his back. He could feel his fingers become wet and hot as he held the gun tightly to his chest.

Suddenly the single howl caused an uproar, and dozens of cries began to intrude upon its solo. All of them, growing steadily closer. Louder and louder, they were at the ridge that surrounded the team. Then, just as it had come, the moaning wails ceased.

Watkins listened, eying his partners. Everyone was tensed and hunched over their weapons. Everyone except Hunk. His tall, broad figure stood calmly, watching the horizon and surroundings with his gun at his fingertips. Watkins began to ease his tension in the silence but-Wait a second. Wait. What was that? What was that noise?

The young recruit removed his helmet to listen closer. There was a noise. It was subtle, an almost obscure beating, like the sound of drums all beating together as a chorale of singers heightened their voices. The noise steadily began to grow louder and harsher, and suddenly Watkins realized it was almost in rhythm, like one part of an entire percussion set. The voices began to grow louder. This wasn't right, and Watkins steadied his gun when suddenly he heard Officer Jameson screaming. The massive eruption of shots echoed throughout the valley and Watkins turned towards the noise.

More shots and a brilliant flash of light emitted from Jameson's gun. It briefly illuminated the figure of Jameson firing into the dark before all went dark again. Another burst of light from the carbine and Watkins saw something that made his skin crawl. A human-like, yellow eyed, monster with a maniacal grin, dancing with Jameson and his rattling bullets. Darkness and screams again, and suddenly another flash and Jameson was thrown to his back upon the ground, more of the devilish, wild-eyed demons encircling him.

And suddenly the flash became like a constant strobe light as Jameson as completely covered by the growing numbers of the creatures, and they began to hover about him. In the wild light, Watkins could only glimpse them as their mouths gaped down upon his wriggling, crying body, stripping the flesh from his bones. The tearing, stretching, and snapping sounds made Watkins' head spin.

Then he heard it, the groaning behind him. He turned and screamed as he opened fire. A brief illumination, those insane yellow eyes and open mouth, wild black hair, and the beast went down in a splatter of blood and meat. Watkins looked down and recognized it. They were people, rotting, twitching, bloody thirsty people. The carriers.

"Move out!" Hunk shouted the order as their assault rifles screamed out into the woods, shooting random bursts as the carriers pursued them from all directions.

Watkins followed Hunk and the other operative, a young woman, he couldn't recall the name, and the three went sprinting off into the woods. The carriers ravenous cries and howls soon drowned out Jameson's screams, growing louder and faster. They flooded from the ridge, dozens of them, some sprinting, others staggering, few dragging their limp bodies behind them.

The three ran for the top of the eastern ridge, hoping to find safety at the helicopter. The carriers were everywhere, there must have been several dozen. Suddenly at the top of the ridge, two crooked, stooped figures appeared against the red sky. Then two more appeared, then more and more; completely surrounding the three. They charged. Several sprinting down the hill furiously and Watkins recognized them as having the symptoms of the second stage of a carrier, the berserker stage. The team turned and tried their way back down the hill, Hunk furiously releasing the wrath of his assault rifle upon the carriers.

Suddenly Watkins heard the other team-member wail, and he turned to see the woman being picked up by the zombies, pulled back from him and Hunk. Watkins watched in utter terror as the woman's clothing was ripped away followed by her flesh, the pale, white hands digging into her belly and ripping her open, grabbing into the cheeks of her mouth and tearing them apart, snapping her jaw clean from her face as they began to feed.

Then he felt the cold hands himself, and Watkins screamed as they ripped away his oxygen mask and bit into his cheek and forehead, tearing at his throat and nose.

"Hunk!" Watkins screamed as he watched the massive figure of the man continue to release bullet after bullet, "Hunk help me!"

He felt their cold fingers suddenly push into one eye socket, feeling them drive his eyeball into his skull. With his one remaining eye he saw Hunk turn to him and aim the assault rifle.

"NO!"

Hunk fired.

000

September 12, 1998

It began as an average day for every pale, overworked, exhausted employee in the facility. The morning alarm sounded fuzzily throughout all the speakers, the power humming to life as the generators began. The employees rose from their beds into the fake, metallic encasement they had practically been forced to live in. This day would mark an entire month in which they had not seen the sun, or outdoors itself. Each day they would rise, work rigorously at their various tasks, occasionally interrupted by the need to eat and rest. Of course even those were maintained and controlled, the employees were told when they were hungry, and when they were tired.

John Schibilski was pretty sure their employer, the Umbrella Corporation, was simply trying to brainwash them. John was one of the top researchers in the clandestine department of biological weaponry. Despite his name, John looked like and Asian. Simply because his mother had been. He was short, wiry, and very pale. Ever-growing bags hung beneath his eyes, and he had that pink swelling about his eyelids that came from keeping them open for too long.

Yes, he was almost certain that it was brainwashing. John rose with a yawn, grumbling at the shattering cry of the alarm clock from the intercom systems built throughout the entire underground facility. He rose and stretched from his cot in his tiny, simple room. He looked to his desk, made of metal and neatly kept with only two pens and a single stack of papers. He was not allowed to write any letters to his loved ones, nor to create anything "of free mind". Yea...that wasn't a big flopping hint that there was some sort of control that Umbrella was trying to clamp to the back of their employees.

He went to the closet and slid open the door, undressing from his pajamas. Ah his pajamas, he loved them, they were the only thing that could display himself. That and his ties. Oh he loved them both. His pajamas, a bright white with little figures of Mario, the infamous video game character running about with tunnels here and there. And his ties, each of them brilliantly colorful and normally decorated with some sort of cartoon character. He knew it sounded crazy, but it was all that John had left of reality in this strange and self-degrading place.

Yet it was for his family. At least the pay wasn't bad. Well, in all honesty the pay was exquisite. He was able to see to it that his family lived lavishly up in New York. John sighed as he put on the deodorant Umbrella had made and began to dress in the clothes claimed by Umbrella.

The only drawback about the money was that he couldn't spend time with his family. No, here he was stuck a mile underground in a massive facility all beneath Umbrella's sponsoring city: Raccoon City.

However, the company wasn't all pretty grins and thumbs up. They were dark, and very sick beneath the polished surface. John and all the other employees across the world were paid to keep quiet of what they knew. The Umbrella company was dirty money. They were ruthless, caring nothing of what they did to people. Even their own people. A few months ago the top scientist for John's department supposedly "disappeared". The officials who were head of this facility said that he ran away, but John had heard otherwise. William Birkin, yea that was his name. Genius, complete genius. He was the one who came up with the T-virus, as well as the new prototype they were testing now.

But anyways, John had been talking to another man who's cell was right next to Dr. Birkin's. He said that in the middle of the sleeping sessions, a man came to Dr. Birkin's door. He thought he had heard gunshots, but the walls in this place are so thick who can be sure? Either way, the guy said he saw some very big man wearing a face mask and all black walked out carrying a large bag.

The thought gave John chills as he buttoned his shirt and threw on his lab coat. Well, time to get back to the grindstone, he'd best leave those thoughts out of his head. But John couldn't help but wonder why William Birkin had been taken.

He sighed and pressed the code to the door, hearing the hiss as it slid open.

...Jesus _Christ_...

Dr. John Schibilski had stepped out of the bright light of his room into the red glow of the emergency back up lights. The main power had been shut off, and it was sweltering. But that wasn't what made John shiver with fear. A body lay contorted upon the floor of the hallway in front of him, and although it was dim he could tell she was dead. She was in such a position that John could tell her spine had been severed, her face and skull torn completely open and twisted. Several of her fingers were bent backwards, and both her arms were tucked tightly into her chest like a spider the way it curls up when it dies.

She stretched out in a puddle of sticky, crimson blood that squeaked when John moved his shoes in it. The liquid had come from several punctures in her chest. Large holes. The smell was terrible, she'd been dead for a few hours. John gagged, feeling his throat tickle and burn with his puke as he turned away.

"Oh_ God_," he coughed, his body shivering despite the stressing heat, "So-somebody! Somebody help! I need help!"

Nothing called back but the distant drone of the emergency power.

John ran. He didn't know where he was going, just anywhere where there might be someone. He sprinted down the hallway, calling frantically. God, please God don't let it be that one of the biological weapons had gotten out. He could just imagine it. Some of them were so awful, not even his nightmares could create something as horrid.

"Help! Please!"  
He knocked on nearly every door. No answer from any. Just that steady, steady hum that became louder. As he ran everything seemed to go from bad to worse. Blood was smeared along the walls, shattered glass, more bodies lining the floor. A head simply laying their, the expression of a young man in fear, the sight of death in his lifeless eyes. John hurriedly hung a right down one of the hallways. He needed to get to security, to find out what had happened.

Please don't let it be that one of the test subjects had gotten loose. They were the epiphany of nightmares. Blood covered the walls and floors, the bodies scattered in harsh ways, their figures telling stories of how they were killed. They had been murdered, ravaged by something intoxicated by rage, in a ferocity without benevolence.

John stopped to catch his breath, the bodies of two older men crumpled beside him. Had the bodies been infected? If they were attacked by anything with the T-virus in it, then yes they most certainly would be. He leaned down and examined the perforations along their mangled bodies. Amidst the meaty glop and blood, John could barely discern a small hint of a that milky whitish, bubbling chemical. They were carriers, and soon the T-virus inside of them would take over their entire body and they would be able to walk again. John shuddered to think of the carriers en masse like this. He'd better keep going-

What was that? John listened for he was almost certain he had heard a clicking type sound. There it was again, a low, hiss berated by a sloppy series of wet clicks. The sound almost like a moist purr, only it sounded bad. John turned, and in the dark red he could barely see a shadow coming forth. It was big, looming over all as it slowly crept towards him. Furious, wide eyes stared at him, a maniacal grin of stained, needle-like teeth. Countless limbs that carried its shadowy, forthcoming figure. Long, bony arms, daggered fingers and it's entire figure just dripping with sticky black scarlet.

John gasped at it's site, it's angry eyes staring at him with a thirst. He ran. He ran as fast as he could, flying for the security rooms. He looked over his shoulder to see that the phantom had not began heavy pursuit. It simply maintained its steady pace, coming closer...closer. It could break into speed at any second, and the thought horrified JOhn. He ran faster, barely making corners as he tried to lose it.

The monster, she had done this. How he knew that, or well that she was female, he couldn't say. He just knew. Her presence was so powerful, so haunting. He knew it was she who had killed everyone, spreading the infection. Finally he came to the door and burst into the room, electronically locking the room behind him.

The security room was quiet, the bodies of the two guards on duty crippled together in the corner, blood splotches along the wall and dotting over their faces. Their eyes were both rolled back into their sockets, their mouths gaping and their skulls smashed open. For some reason, their bodies were the worst he had seen. Their slumped figures got to him, just eating away at his sanity.

John shuddered and turn to the only light source throughout the entire room, the massive wall of monitor screens displaying the many areas of this section of the facility. John stumbled to the monitors, looking over his shoulder at the red glow that stared at him through the window of the door. He turned back.  
Biological weapon containment...where were the screens that watched those rooms. John had to find what subject got out. He had seen it, but it was so...so horrifying he wasn't sure if he had been hallucinating. She was so silent, her eyes intelligent but filled with lusting rage. God...she was the peak of any mortal's nightmare. Her image haunted him, the thought of her spindly legs and slowly twisting skull with that crooked grin.

His thoughts were shook as he found the monitors containing the simple, black and white images of the metal and glass containment cells for the test subjects. The 121's, John had prayed they were still contained. He checked for the cage-cam screen. He melted in relief was he saw the muscled figures of the 121 "hunter" projects still pacing back and forth solemnly in their massive cage. He checked the new tyrant specimens...301, 302, 303...all the way to 313, they were all accounted for; including the new "nemesis" project. It slept standing up in the thick, glass tube that was wreathed in steaming fumes.

John was about to check the beta 121's when suddenly he heard it. The clicking. The incessant clicking as _she_ drew closer. John turned around to face the door. He watched it in terror, wanting so bad to shut his eyes and pray to god but somehow petrified with his eyes transfixed upon the red light that seeped from behind the door. He stood in the pitch black of the room, the glow of the monitors to his back, the dim red glow of the emergency lights outside showing upon the sweaty beads of his face.

Then suddenly he could see her figure slowly drive away that red light through the doorway, her face taking up the entire window, pressed up against the glass and _staring_. Insane, intent eyes focused on him as she breathed against the window through her long, narrow teeth. Her wrinkled, twisted face staring at him. Wanting his flesh.

"No..." he pleaded, "Just go away! You've killed enough! Just go away!"

But she slowly shook her head.

"Oh god..." John whispered, shrinking away against the computers and monitors.

With sudden force she burst from away from the window, rattling it. A cacophony of clanging, scraping claws, and pounding against steel shook and bent the ceiling above John. She was in the ventilation system, she was coming for him.

Louder and louder the beating, scratching sounds came, clambering hungrily for John Schibilski in the darkness. They were right above him now, seething, agonizing, booming noise that dug like bent fingernails into his ears.

John screamed and covered his entire face as his legs gave out-

-The noise stopped.

John's hoarse voice began to whimper and cry as he crumpled to his knees, his hands no longer touching his face but guarding it with quivering fingers. He waited...his eyes clamped shut. Waiting for death. Silence had never been so loud, pulsing in his ears as he cried and pleaded meaningless words.

Uneasily, he pulled his hands from his face, and opened his eyes.

Her stare met him face to face, gaping teeth and fierce eyes staring wide, their veins pulsing as her entire face dripped with blood from her victims. She screamed, a high, croaking wail that sounded like a hundred years of brutality and agony. John screamed as he felt her spindly fingers grab him and hurl his bodies into the wall of monitors.

He felt the screens shatter and electricity spurt out in a display of sparks and white streaks against his back, the feeling of heat and glass falling with him. His body rebounded, his face and chin colliding with the table edge and tumbling along the hard floor. He groaned and cried, picking himself up with bloody, burned hands. His chin was split wide open, his lip and back torn as he dragged himself into the corner, aware of only her heavy breathing behind him. She was just playing with him.

He backed into a corner and turned to face her, knowing his death could only be prolonged now. The flashes of electricity from teh slowly dying monitor screens lit the room like a strobe light. Flashing on and off. A brilliant burst of light, then complete darkness. Another flash, another moment of shadow. Each flash he could see every other detail of her demon-like body.

She now hung from the ceiling with her spindly, crooked legs. She was like a spider, a human, a ghost, and a winged demon without skin or soul. A brilliant flash, and she began to crawl long the ceiling, her long black hair draping over her entire, massive body. Darkness, and John could only hear the rhythms of breath, one induced by hunger and the want to kill, the other in fear as the prey.

Another burst of light from the monitors, and she was closer, just reaching the wall above him, looking down with her hair already dangling down and tickling his shoulders. Darkness again, and he could know nothing.

Another flash, and she was closer, the veins in her face pulsing and pumping blood and chemicals throughout her body. Again darkness reigned, and John could feel her hot, rotten breath begin to sting at his face.

A final flash of light, and she was inches from his face. In that second, John knew all that she had suffered and been through. It was her time for vengeance, she had killed all of these people with the intent of infecting them. She wanted the entire world to know her pain and suffering.  
"God, what have we done?" John whispered.

Darkness came, and he could feel her fingers penetrate his jaw and sink down into his chest and stomach, swimming around in his stomach before shredding his guts wide open.


	2. Chapter 1: The Girl

BIG MISTAKE EVERYBODY! READ THIS CHAPTER!

This chapter is the lost chapter to this novel, I thought I had it in there, but I didn't. Once you've read this, teh story will make a ton more sense and...hopefully...will scare you even more. This chapter entails how Leon and Claire first meet, another fatal attack, and...a dark figure who lingers in the sewers and can talk?...perhaps this has something to do with the first novel...eh? (man with a key, check it out in Conspiracy if you get confused)

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Chapter One

September 26, 1998

Leon Scott Kennedy sat alone, sunken into the large cushions of a leather couch in the shadow-engrossed living room of his apartment. The only light came from the flashing, constantly moving and unremittingly buzzing television in front of him, its silvery blue light giving little illumination to the shadows that accompanied his figure. His eyelids hung heavily, just barely covering his glance like shutters that were stuck so that they couldn't close all the way. He hadn't slept for weeks. He didn't need it.

Flipping through the many wondrous channels late night TV had to offer, Leon felt utterly annoyed by the obnoxious lows that America's population had delivered itself to just to be able to smile and say 'look at me' on the idiot box. He paused for a moment to watch an infomercial pertaining two midgets walking about their estate, convincing people to follow in their tiny footsteps in order to become wealthy. It was pretty much a biography with little hints and tips on an occasional note. Whatever, he'd seen it all on previous nights.

He clicked the remote control once more and stumbled upon one of those Japanese cartoons. Anime, it was called, or something like that. Kids around here loved it, so naturally nearly every adult (except the ones still having to use pimple cream and their mothers' income to live) despised it. This particular show was about some strange girl that was a cyborg or lived in some shell or something like that. She'd come out and kill people, basic gist of it. Of course it was better then that one where little multi-colored animal monsters jumped out of balls and said their names over and over again as if they were speaking.

Leon sighed and flipped to another channel. Porn. He changed the channel again. More porn. It was clear that his friend and roommate, Joseph Frost, had seen to it that Leon's TV was properly suited for his watching. Over the past two months Joseph and Leon had had to share an apartment because of money troubles, and since then they had become identical to yin and yang. Complete opposites, however neither of them could seem to live apart from one another. Especially after _that_ night two months ago. Yea, that was pretty much how it was referred to now. No one wanted to go beyond those words, especially Leon.

Subconsciously, Leon allowed his hand to rise and touch the place on his neck where the traitor Albert Wesker had infected him. He could still remember his hands tightly bound, the rush as the needle pricked his skin. Feeling the scarred, dry skin made him shudder and pull his hand away, as though he could feel the prick of that needle all over again. As though he could feel the infectious liquid being pumped into his veins and once again gain control of the entire wiring in his mind so that he sought nothing but to kill again and again and again.

That thought scared him. It was the realization that he could lose all control of himself and go on a rampage, just as he had that night with Wesker. Ever since then he had secretly asked Rebecca to create a strong dosage of tranquilizers.

Whenever that urge began to rise he would inject himself with the sedatives and become docile. So what if he became somewhat of a vegetable while he was under the influence? It was worth keeping everyone safe from him.

That wasn't the only thing that had changed in his life because of the T-virus. He didn't have to workout, his body maintained perfect condition and excellent metabolism. He felt a heightened stamina, better sensory and perception, and there never seemed to be an end to his goddamn energy level. While there were some benefactors about this, the fact that sucked was that he hadn't slept in _forever_, and the last thing he ate was half a box of fries. That was a week ago. He did however, drink plenty of water. Hell, he'd go through a good four or five gallons a day. It kept him healthy, but he had to piss like race horse just about every night.

Just then he heard Joseph mutter something from his room. Talking in his sleep again. Joseph was a loud sleeper, no questions asked. The thought made Leon glad that only Rebecca and Barry had known about his infection. Barry only knew because he was there, and Rebecca was told because Leon was hoping with the research she'd obtained from the mansion she could utilize a cure. Leon didn't want the others to know, he knew that Joseph couldn't take it. The two of them had grown even closer over the past two months, almost like brothers. Leon couldn't have that jeopardized. And then there was Jill, and Leon was pretty sure she was aware of his...problem...but he could trust her to say nothing of it.

God, thinking about his old partners just made it worse. Everything had gone so wrong since that awful night. Leon took a moment away from the television and thought back to the morning after their nightmare at the Spencer Estate mansion in Raccoon Forest.

He and the other S.T.A.R.S. members had returned the morning after the incident full of sorrow and rage. It was Umbrella Corporation who was responsible for that entire situation. It was Umbrella Corporation who had killed their companions, and they wanted it to be known.

Leon and Jill immediately confronted their Police Chief Brian Irons about the entire thing. They explained everything, fully accusing Umbrella of the entire situation. They explained about how their commander, Albert Wesker, was in on the whole thing, and about the T-virus, as well as the monsters it created. Joseph and the others did so as well after they had recovered at the hospital. This had lasted about a week before Irons suddenly decided to suspend the entire remaining S.T.A.R.S. team for improper police conduct at the scene.

The murders were written off as inexplicable, and the investigation was closed. The press blamed S.T.A.R.S. members for the deaths, outwardly accusing them of unprofessional behavior. Little did any of them know that Umbrella owned not only the police force, but the entire press of Raccoon City. They had been backstabbed, and now there wasn't a single place they could go to without someone giving them a dirty look. After all that, everyone in the group just sort of broke apart.

Barry had moved down to Tennessee with his family to live in the big city where some of his relatives were. The last time Leon had spoken with him had been a month ago, and he was still adjusting to big city life.

Rebecca Chambers was gone as well. Leon remembered her giving him a large supply of the sedatives before she was forced to move with her parents up to New York where they had enrolled her in some sort of correctional facility. She needed a good place to regain function, but Leon wasn't entirely sure if a bunch of psychiatrists testing her was the best grounds for revival. He really should go and visit her soon, see how she is doing.

And then there was Jill valentine. After Chris Redfield's death, she completely changed. Leon had no idea what happened to her, except that she had called him a couple weeks ago. He remembered all too well how that had gone:

_"I have to go away for awhile, Leon," she had said plainly, almost authoritatively._

_"What? Wait Jill, where are you going?"_

_"I don't know, just somewhere safe. You and Joseph should leave too. It's not safe there in Raccoon City."_

_"What? Jill what are you talking about?-"_

_"Just trust me! Leon you need to get out of Raccoon City. I can't talk much longer. All I can say is that they are looking for us, they want us for something and I don't know what."_

_"What? Jill wait a second-"_

_"I have to go. Take care, and I'll call you when I can."_

Just like that, she was gone. Leon had gone to her house, only to find it had been completely ransacked. Someone had come through looking for her, and Leon was all too aware that Umbrella was somehow linked.

Umbrella, the faceless, traceless organization that had sacrificed so many lives just for the sake of their own demented sciences. The bastards that made Leon keep an eye behind him whenever he walked alone. It was Umbrella who made him worry about the lock on his door at night, and the subtle noises that stirred in the dark.

Either way, it had been two weeks and Leon had spent countless hours waiting by the phone for Jill to call. But she never did.

So now here he and Joseph were, stuck together in Raccoon City, trying to raise enough money to get out of town like the others had. It were as though the night of the Spencer Estate was the pivotal moment for everyone's life, and they were all slowly descending. Leon had had a good job, a fresh start to what looked to be a good life, and in one night that he should have been commended for, he was ridiculed and destroyed. Society had backstabbed him.

Suddenly something inside his brain scraped against his temples and he lurched forward, coughing and hacking horribly. He began to wheeze and choke, trying to stumble to his feet, dropping the remote controller to the floor. It were as though rusted nails were being dragged along the insides of his skull and his ears were being penetrated by steel wool. Tears ran to his eyes, and Leon began to convulse.

It was coming back, the virus was coming back. It was waking up inside of him, pounding up through his heart and rib cage, twitching into every vein, bone and muscle. His flesh began to curl and creep, and his nose began to bleed.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill..._

"No..." he gasped as he fell to floor, silence twisting and warping into a cacophony of screams and cries from that fateful night two months ago.

The howl of the dogs, the screams of his teammates as they all began to die around him, ripped open wide and slowly devoured in a gushing crimson display of the walking dead. The moans of the zombies, the howling roars of the berserker dead rising up as they filled his soul. Lisa Trevor's agonized wails as she slashed her hook and ripped into his ribcage. Wesker laughing at his pathetic form crumpled upon the floor.

_ "You're my creation, and I want you to-Kill kill kill kill kill kill..._

"Stop it!" he suddenly screamed into his hands as he shielded himself from the noise.

Everything stopped. The noise twisted back into a delicate ringing. Ringing, ringing ringing. Dazed and mentally contorted, Leon opened his eyes. His nose had stopped bleeding, and only a small puddle of blood and puke lay splattered on the floor. The ringing slowly went away in his ears, dying out. His legs like rubber, Leon wobbled to his feet and stumbled over to the kitchen to grab a few paper towels to clean up the mess he'd made.

"HEY!" Joseph called from his bedroom, he then proceeded to mumble something which could only be described as, "Shut a the-hey quiet, man!"

Leon smirked at Joseph's mumbles, the man only half conscious of what was going on. He wiped the mess up, deciding that there was no point in staying here if he wasn't going to sleep. So, the only place he could think of that'd still be open this late would be Emmy's diner. What the hell, he could use some good public atmosphere right now as it was.

Leon grabbed his black sneakers and began lacing them up. He was already wearing his clothing from that day: Jeans and a tight gray t-shirt that bore the faded words "Hell's Kitchen Boxing Club". It was Leon's old t-shirt from his high school days in Hell's Kitchen. One rough place to grow up, thinking back now he was glad his father had put him through all those years of boxing. He admired the shirt for a second, one could still barely make out the faded image of a little cartoon devil with boxing gloves on and a mischievous grin. Leon smiled.

He switched off the TV and shook his head at the prospering amount of adult channels that Joseph had programmed. Walking quietly towards the door, Leon eyed the big dog slumbering amidst its own cushions upon the wood floor. His dog growing up over the past two months had been one of the few positive things in Leon's life. Oh well, he thought as he reached for his faded-brown, leather jacket. The only reason we fall down is to get back up again. The dog awoke as Leon shuffled around in his jacket.

"Don't worry, Argus," Leon whispered, "I'm just going out for a quick bite. I'll be back in an hour or so."

He watched the pup groan and pass back out on its mattress. Smiling numbly, Leon felt about in his pockets aimlessly until his fingers stumbled upon his wallet, the feeling of torn leather inside of it. It was the place where his police badge once was. That feeling of pride and courage stripped clean from him, striking down on the very pride his father and grandfather had carried as police officers. After seeing the corruption and deceit that had taken place these past months at the city's police station, Leon didn't care if he was never a cop again.

Stepping out the door of his studio apartment, Leon decided he was better off at his current job, a construction worker.

...bull shit.

000

Claire Redfield brushed the long bangs of her auburn hair from her almost silvery, icy blue eyes. Her complexion was soft, a smooth creamy summer tan that was slowly fading from the fall's approaching weather. She sat hunched over the desk in the break room of her work, deeply buried within the context of Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" for her literary class. She reveled in the symbolism it ensnared so unnoticeably. Softly, she bit her pink, glossy lower lip in concentration.

Reading on with only the faded glow of a single lamp to allow her, sometimes she wished she had the money and life of these characters. That carefree and "able to make drama" lifestyle, that's what she wanted. Maybe not for the drama, but for the leisure to sit back and relax at ease. That would be so nice...

"Claire!" came that gruff, mumbling voice, "Getbacktowork!"

Her boss. The bastard was a grisly old chef who seemed to think that the English language could be completely melded together into one groaning, throaty word. That, and whenever he spoke to her the unshaven fat would wobble and wiggle as it dangled from his neck. Not to mention how much of a perv he was. Every time he confronted her she could just watch his little beady eyes droop down to her chest.

"I'm on break, Barney," Claire called as she rolled her eyes, "I've got to study."

"Study!" he spoke with a burst of saliva at the door of the break room, "No! Wegotcustomers! Getbacktowork!"

Claire sighed, blowing her bangs out of her face as she heard the fat, decrepit old man stumble back to the sizzle of the kitchen. Truth be told there was no luxury in her life. She was once an art student studying in New York City, working for an incredible art gallery with critics and big bodies looking at her artwork.

But then her older brother Chris Redfield passed away in the line of duty. Him being her only remaining guardian, she lost all support. After visiting his funeral in Raccoon City, she realized that she was stuck. So two months had passed, and now she had a dead end job as a waitress for some all night diner.

So she still went college. Big deal. It was some local college for dropouts that she could barely afford, and only to get a decent degree in literature. The arts didn't even exist in this wastoid's getaway.

Claire sighed and tucked the book into her backpack on one of the coat rings along the wall. Break was up, back to the grindstone of Emmy's diner. As she stepped out of the break room and into the dirty kitchen she smoothed out the creases in her ugly, pink waitress uniform; something stolen right out of the fifties. Of course this entire place seemed to be of that era.

"Claire! You'retheonlywaitress andwe'vegotacustomer! Getbacktowork!" and the jowls wriggled beneath his neck as he stood hunched over the grill, flipping two burgers.

She let out a kind of annoyed groan and stormed towards the door leading to the front of the diner. Honest to god, she was going to shoot the man right in between those beady eyes some day. Why did she choose an open-all-night diner to work at? Seriously, what pathetic loser could want a cheeseburger and milkshake at three in the morning?

She stepped out behind the bar's counter and her question was answered, her breath nearly taken. If he was any kind of loser, he was a very good looking one.

Dirty blonde hair dangled down before his soft eyes as he sat hunched over the table of one of the corner booths. He was the only customer in the desolate restaurant. His brown leather jacket was laid across the table, and Claire could see his muscles beneath a tight, gray t-shirt. He had a slender, but muscular build. A narrow face, tanned and covered with, scarce freckles across his cheeks and nose.

Looking away briefly, Claire grabbed a pot of coffee and a menu and began to approach his table.

000

Leon sat alone in Emmy's diner, in the loneliest corner booth of the entire joint. He sat facing the door. God, he hadn't been here in so long. He smiled at the lime green seat coverings of the booths, the dirty white tables upon the tiled floor. There were tropical plants in the corners against the old yellow walls that held up paintings of famous grinning faces from the fifties. The smell, of course, was unforgettable. Greasy, unhealthy, all American smell of an old diner out of its place yet doing just fine.

It was good to get out again, see the old diner and let the memories soak his thoughts. And where was the waitress? Hell, Leon was the only guy in the place, what could be so hard about just a little service?

As if to answer his call, a young waitress he hadn't noticed behind the counter began to approach him. Immediately Leon brushed away any negative thoughts he had towards her, watching her soft walk.

She was tall, with a thin and smooth body that was lined with slender, feminine muscles suggesting her athleticism. Even in those awful pink dresses the waitresses were forced to wear, she was breathtaking. A cute, playful look on her face as she looked into his eyes. She had a confident, independent stare about her, a stare that said she was kind and possibly interested but could go completely on without a care.

"Hi, would you like some coffee?" she said with a smile as she stood over Leon.

"Uh..." He looked up at her in partial awe, "Um...I mean yea, ahem, yes I would. Or no, sorry, no thanks. I-uh, don't think I need any if I'm up this late."

"Oh, well yea," she smiled with a quiet laugh, "All right then. Well um...do you know what you want or do you need a minute?"

Leon looked up at her for a moment, studying her pale blue eyes. They were kind, innocent and good, but there was something about them. Something jaded, as though they had seen something awful but it was sewn up to quickly to be properly healed.

"Uh, well actually, I sort of just came down here to get out of my apartment. I just needed some time to...to think I guess. If you don't mind, I'd kinda like to just sit here," Leon said with a smile, trying not to sound so foolish.

She smiled warmly, "Okay, well if you need anything I'll just be over um, over there."

"Okay."

Wow. She looked _incredible_. Her magenta, yet brown hair done up in a ponytail behind her head with strands dangling down about her ears and her slender face. The consideration of asking her to sit down was throbbing in Leon's head. But really, she was working, who wants to be bothered while they're working? But then again, it's not like she had much to do. And besides, she did kind of give him a look, didn't she? What if she said no? How awkward would that be if he decided he wanted a cheeseburger? Oh come on, to hell with it. She's walking away!

"Uh, well actually," Leon's voice broke the silence.

She turned back with a smile on her face, Leon oblivious to the fact that it was a hopeful smile.

"If, you know, if you don't mind I could use some company. Just to talk. I mean if you're not too busy. And if you don't want to, hey that's cool too," Leon spoke like a verbal klutz.

However, to his surprise, the girl smiled.

"Yea, sure," she said, causing his heart to completely evaporate upwards, "Just let me set this stuff down real quick."

"Okay."

000

His fingers scrambled along the walls, scratching at the stone.

"Why didn't you listen…" he whispered, his gasps of breath draped with saliva that dribbled from his lips.

"Why didn't you listen, Leon…"

A throbbing, twisted, and bloated figure that hung in the shadows. His shoulders heave with every breath, his muscles flexing and snapping, twisting the tendons as they grew and sputtered. His eyes, wide and still shielded by the cracked lens of glasses, stared up at the light coming from the sewer gate above. The city above. The life above. How temporary.

"Why didn't you listen to me, Leon Scott Kennedy!" he wailed, tearing his fingernails out as he clawed against the wall.

He had come to Leon, he had given him the key.

But Leon did not listen…and now evil was coming.

A fury was coming.

000

"I guess when I was little I used to be kind of a tomboy," Claire said with a guilty grin.

"Hey, that's okay. When I was little I was a pansy. I was always afraid of bugs and heights and anything, really."

"Ha, you should have hung out with me and Chris."

"Yea...but anyways. So you said this isn't your only job. I mean, here as a waitress?" Leon took a deep drink from a glass of water.

"Yep, I also volunteer at an orphanage, just to teach and help around with the children, there's only ten of them so it really isn't too difficult. Well actually it's kind of a catholic school, that's at least how they pretty up the whole orphanage title."

"Well that must be fun working with kids."

"Ha, yea sure. I mean the kids are great, but it's the nuns that bother me. It's always some prissy rule they're in my face about. Not to mention they're already trying to lay the ten commandments on a bunch of children."

Leon shook his head, "That's really kind of strange. Then again there are a lot of weird things going on in this world. I find it surprising that people can still care for one another through all the chaos. Then I suppose someone with as much care as yourself has no problem doing so. I mean you care for the kids, and you and your brother got along great."

"Yea, that was then. Things are different now. After Chris passed away two months ago, I couldn't afford to go back to college in New York. So I moved here, and...well there you go," Claire spoke bashfully, and Leon could tell she wasn't used to talking about herself so much.

"I'm really sorry, Claire," he replied earnestly, "I knew that Chris had a sister but I never even met you."

"Don't worry about it. From what Barry told me before he left, you guys had one rough night."

Leon shook his head darkly, "You have no idea. But, Chris was an incredible guy. He saved my life."

Claire smiled but said nothing for a moment. The two had mostly just meandered aimlessly through small talk, but occasionally would dabble into the deeper subjects about what had been going on these past two months. As it turned out, Claire was the younger sister of Chris Redfield. Leon had remembered Chris talking about her, it was apparent he was her only guardian. Joseph had spoken of her as well, only Joseph spoke of how hot he was. There was no lie there.

"Well, he was a good brother," Claire finally spoke, pushing strands of her hair behind her ears, "But from what I heard...you were also the hero."

Leon shook his head diligently, it was his turn to be bashful, "Well, no I don't really think so. It's just, that's why I was a cop. You've got to look out for everybody, it was my job."

"It _was_ your job? What happened?"

"Well, just like everyone else, I got suspended permanently from the force," Leon's voice drew very quiet, and he eyed the windows about them before continuing, "We told our Police Chief about what had happened, about how Umbrella was behind the entire thing."

"Yea, I read about how you all accused them in the papers, is that really what happened?"

Leon nodded solemnly, "We had evidence and everything, but the Chief would have nothing of it. He didn't believe us for a second, and he suspended us all. Rumor has it, Chief Irons is on the payroll of Umbrella. Anyways, the evidence was a bunch of papers with the Umbrella logo on it, as well as several signatures from some of the top C.E.O.'s. The papers spoke about the experiments that had gone on at the mansion. Rebecca Chambers, one of the operatives, had them. But when she moved, the papers were taken. So we have no evidence now, just an accusation."

"So everyone believed the press when they said that you all had done a bad job, and you had all been suspended for lack of better judgment."

"Pretty much. After that everyone split. Everyone except for Joseph and me, that is."

"Well, has anyone bothered you about it? I mean, anyone from Umbrella?"

"No, that's what I don't get. Everyone else had been interrogated by some official from the company within the first week they got back. Jill's house was even searched. But for some reason, they completely avoided me."

Claire was silent for another brief moment. Leon took a drink of his glass of water. It was his fifth glass, but Claire hadn't noticed. At last she spoke, "It just...it seems so strange."

"What does?"

"Your entire ordeal with Umbrella. I mean, look at all they fund for this town, and for all of America. They've done so much to help this place, and they manufacture so many products and sponsor so many different things. Not to mention what they do for the military. I mean, if you think about it, it's a little scary how they have such a deep root in the government."

"So you believe it?"

Claire's voice also became quiet, "All I know is that Chris would never have _misbehaved _on a mission, and he certainly wouldn't have given his life for something he didn't believe. Come to think of it, he never did like Umbrella."

"I know, they're a monopoly. We just stumbled upon one of their locked doors and tried to point it out. Now, they won't let us forget it. They want us to pay."

"Yea, I'm sorry to hear that this has changed your life so much. From what it sounds like, you were a really great cop."

"Oh, well thanks. I mean, I don't know about being a great cop or anything, but you know...I tried."

"Well I mean after all those things you did. How you saved nearly everyone on your team? I think that's pretty cool how you didn't really even think of yourself."

"Well, I guess so," Leon kind of let his eyes drop to his lap, no matter how heroic he had been, he had still failed to save Chris. He had still failed to save his own life, in a sense.

"Oh hey, it's after four-thirty," Claire became excited, "Time for me to sign out."

"Oh okay," Leon chuckled as he watched the girl get up and walk off to clock out.

"Be right back, Leon," she said as she disappeared into the back.

Leon was just amazed at how incredible this girl was. Just a couple years younger then him and already deeply involved in the arts and literature. She had spoken of how she had dabbled in writing, painting, and mostly sculpting, and how she was looking to try and break into the art world on the east coast. And if that wasn't enough she had the body to be a _runway model_. She was beautiful, and even better she was active. She had told Leon about how she had wanted to play football when she was in high school so they had started up a girls' league because she couldn't play for the boys'.

Just then she opened the door from the back of the diner and stepped out with her back to Leon yelling, "Barney, I'm out of here! Christine and Michelle should be in soon!"

"Getonhome!" came a sputtered yell from the back.

Claire turned to Leon and rolled her eyes, a backpack slung over her shoulder and a dark red leather jacket in her arms. He smiled and stood from his booth, throwing on his own jacket. The two approached each other at the door of the diner, smiling awkwardly for a moment as they looked at one another.

Leon opened the door for her, and she stepped out smiling her thanks. There the two stood in the cold.

"Well," Leon said, "If you'd like I can walk you home."

"Didn't you drive?"

"No, I like to walk at night. Plus it saves gas."

"Oh that's cool. Well I'd like that, but where do you live?"

"Over in the Trask district."

"What? Leon you can't be serious, I live in Monroe district, here and then all the way back to Trask is like another hour."

"So?"

Claire smirked as she put on her jean jacket, rolling her eyes at his cute eagerness to be a gentleman.

"You know, you're too old fashioned," Claire said flirtatiously, "Always wanting to be a hero _and_ a polite young man."

"What's wrong with that?" he retorted playfully.

"I never said there was anything wrong with it..."

She slung her backpack over her shoulder, and Leon noticed the back of her jacket. There was a small angel embroidered on the upper left shoulder, an angel holding a spear. "Let Me Live" was written in cursive above the figure. It was just like Chris' was; only his was black.

"Well," Claire said, "I've got class tomorrow, I'd better head off. It was nice meeting you, Leon."

"Nice meeting you too."

She smiled and turned to walk off, walking away very slowly. Okay, Leon could breathe again. Now should he ask her out on a date? Was it too soon? Would that really be the right move to play? Okay, fine, just do it.

"Uh, hey Claire," Leon called after her.

She turned back towards him, her slender silhouette gleaming from the orange light of a street lamp.

"I was wondering, what are you doing tomorrow night?"

"Working," she said.

"Oh, well what about the night after that?"

"Nothing, why did you have something in mind?" she asked teasingly.

"Well, I heard there's a festival in the park that a local theatre is putting up, they're performing Shakespearean plays. I just thought you might like to go."

Claire walked back towards Leon, reaching into her backpack. She pulled out a marker.

"I'd love to, here's my number," she said as she wrote it down along the back of his hand, "Call me about it?"

"Of course."

"Great," she said, and the two were left with that overjoyed but still nervous phase, "Well, I'll uh, see you then."

"Yea. See you then. Bye."

"Bye."

Leon watched her turn and walk down the street, seeing her body etched over in the dim glow of the street lamps. Ecstatic about having something to smile about, Leon turned and walked proudly down the street in the opposite direction. Little did he know their date would never take place.

000

September 26, 1998

Dr. Andrew Stevenson had never seen anything like it. Twenty-six years working at the Raccoon City Hospital, nearly a decade of medical school, one of the best doctors in New England. All of that, and he stood before the patient's bedside, completely baffled by the cause of death. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, simply returning home late one night from a nearby park. Was it a hate crime? The child was African-American...but that wouldn't make sense. The lacerations and punctures all over his flesh...the _bite marks_.

Three hours ago he'd been carried in the hospital just fine by his older brother. He was petrified, but showed no signs of needing immediate medical attention. A few wounds on his arms and shoulders, Dr. Stevenson had assumed it to be an attack by a dog. But then the boy had started to convulse, and he was taken into the emergency room. All the while the child was screaming about monsters, men grabbing him and trying to bite him. Before this summer the doctor would have brushed it off as delusions caused from paranoia, but in the past months he had seen things...horrible things that made him suddenly want to believe the boy.

He now stood over the child, puzzled by why he had died. In just three hours he had gone from mild injuries to chronic seizures, finally slipping into a coma, and then death. The bright lights shown down upon the white and silver objects about the room. Blood smeared along the stretcher the boy still lay in. His eyes and mouth open, streaks of crimson seeping from every orifice. The wounds he had received seemed somehow worse then before, as though they had shriveled back like dying flowers.

That wasn't even the worst part. Just within the past eight hours, the hospital had received at least twelve other patients whose symptoms were identical to this boy's. The victims just kept coming. Most of them were still desperately grasping at life, but something inside the doctor made him realize that they were going to die and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Was it an epidemic? It had happened so suddenly, all just within the day.

Then there was the patient that had walked himself in just two hours ago. That had frightened the entire staff. A young man, early twenties, came stumbling in through the front doors just before the epidemic patients had begun arriving. Covered in blood, his torso torn wide open, he had immediately tried to attack the receptionist. He was restrained, and was currently being held in a room where one of the newer doctors was trying to work with him. Dr. Stevenson could bet almost anything the young man was on some kind of drug.

Sighing heavily, the stress weighing down upon his shoulders, the doctor pulled the turquoise sheet over the boy's head. Time of death was two-thirty five in the morning. It was now three, oh god why can't this just end so he can go home? Dr. Stevenson turned and went out of the double doors with a disheartened feeling tugging at his fatigued mind.

It was time to go check on the other patients similar to this boy. The doctor decided to avoid telling the boy's brother, who was still pacing anxiously about the waiting room. He always hated delivering the news of death's business. Walking down the hallway, he checked his clipboard. The other patients who had still survived were all gathered in a larger room, six of them. Four had apparently went into comas, while the other two were still having seizures. This update was about an hour behind, and the doctor hoped to god he hadn't lost any of these patients yet. Maybe there was something more he could do, something he had overlooked.

Dr. Stevenson stopped walking. He took his eyes off of his clipboard, suddenly aware of the silence that bloated up the empty hallway. The doctor looked around nervously, no one was there. Where in bloody hell was his staff?

_"Oh god! Please-no! Help me! No!"_

Dr. Stevenson's spine felt like it was covered in frost. He recognized the voice of one of the nurses, Samantha, or something. It was coming from room 312, the room in which the epidemic patients were being held. Her screams were cut into gurgling, choking gasps and cries.

He broke into a sprint, running down the end of the hall towards the room. He came to the single door, trying to peer in through the window. It was black inside. He grabbed the handle and burst into the room-...and froze stiff.

In the dark he could barely discern the figures of four men hunched over something in the moonlight that shown with its silvery blue through the window. Crunching...ripping, gushing, squishing...the gut-twisting sounds that made Dr. Stevenson lurch. The screaming went on and on, piercing the darkness with the sounds of a young woman in complete agony.

His fingers shaking, the doctor flipped one of the light switches to the side of the door. A single fluorescent light hummed to life, and the doctor cried in horror. The four men were the patients, draped in their blood-stained robes, they were all on their hands and knees over Samantha. She lay there helplessly, her tears mixing with the blood that splattered upon her face as her arms slapped and waved about on the tile floor in pain. They were tearing her apart with their bare hands and their teeth.

The doctor watched as one patient grabbed her flailing arm, his wet black hair dangling over his mangled face that was transfixed in a grin. In a sudden twisting motion he snapped her arm back, breaking the joint before he sunk his teeth into it. They were eating her. Dr. Stevenson watched them rip her stomach open, tearing out her entrails and devouring them, cracking off her ribs and struggling amongst one another for her heart.

Slowly, Samantha's screams faded into gurgling chokes, before her face finally went blank, her eyes letting the life seep from them as the men continued to rip her skin wide, blood splattering along the floor and their faces as they dug in with their fingernails and teeth. They moaned, croaking hungrily as they fed.

Suddenly the doctor felt a hand behind him, and he turned with a scream to see the little negro boy, his eyes pale and furious. Oh God...

The little boy drove the doctor to the ground, biting his hands as he thrust them out in defense. The doctor screamed as he saw several of the other epidemic victims appear in the darkness above them, the glow from the light partially giving detail to their hungry glares. Calmly groaning, they got down on their knees and grabbed him.

"No!"


	3. Chapter 2: Mr Death

Chapter two

September 27, 1998

Mr. Death leaned back against the cold steel wall of his cell. That cold, lifeless feeling felt good against his muscled back. He inhaled the crisp, chemically clean air, staring up at the single green glow that stared back from the bars of light. Then he stared at his energy cells, big machines slowly moving, cranking, winding, and pumping so that he could stay alive. His eyes followed the hundreds of wires that hung from the ceilings, dangling down to his naked body. Their they snuck like mechanical serpents into his skin, under his flesh and rooted into his body to fuel him.

His cell was cramped, between the many needles and wires that protruded from his perforated flesh he could barely walk more then a step. To any normal man this would hurt, feeling chemical after chemical being slowly pumped into your body, filling your heart and veins with its black, hot liquid. But to him, it was a high that could only be heightened by the excruciating pain. He moved, feeling the many needles that were stuck into his temples and cheeks, all around the back of his skull and neck.

Steam ebbed up from the vents of his floor, rust and decay cracked and made its way down from the ceiling. There was only one sign of decoration: a single poster that had been plastered to the opposite wall decades ago. It was the logo of the Umbrella Corporation, the very reason that Mr. Death lived and breathed. He smiled to himself, thinking of the excellent life he had. No worries, no complaints, no unique thought whatsoever. He was told what to do, then allowed to relax and be fed these toxins for days, even months. It had only been three days since his last mission down to Raccoon Forest. It was one of his most difficult. Not that he found it hard to accomplish, he had taken out all of the carriers and destroyed any evidence linking Umbrella to the destruction scene at the Spencer Estate. It was simply his most difficult.

It was then that the door hissed as it opened electronically, slowly creaking to the side. Dr. Forde stepped inside Mr. Death's chamber and took a seat across from him.

"Good morning, doctor," Mr. Death said in his dark, croaking tone.

"Good morning, Hunk. How are you feeling?"

Mr. Death inhaled that wondrous chemical smell again and smiled blatantly, "Refreshed."

"Excellent, because I have some news that you may or may not take to."

Mr. Death liked Dr. Forde. the doctor was a crisp, heartless man who only found care and concern for Mr. Death. After all the good doctor had raised him like a son, teaching him to become the ultimate killer. If there was ever a question to get rid of Mr. Death, Dr. Forde fought it until it was no more. Mr. Death appreciated that, he knew that one day if the time came he would return the favor.

"Dr. Forde, you know I always take to business."

The doctor smiled, "Yes well, as for the rest of us, this job's going to be difficult."

"Go on."

"As you are aware there is an underground laboratory beneath the very streets of Umbrella's birthplace, Raccoon City. It is where we facilitate most of our biological weaponry, including a few B.O.W.'s. As a matter of fact it is where you were trained and raised."

"Of course."

"Well, as you were aware Dr. William Birkin, one of the leading scientists, had been working on a new virus prototype known as the G-virus."

"Of course, he was the man I assassinated to obtain the information about the virus."

"Yes, of course, and afterwards new scientists fresh from Umbrella were brought in to continue work in that massive laboratory. However, there is a problem."

"Which is," Mr. Death didn't care for subtle pauses.

"The virus was somehow spilled, and we have lost all communication with the lab."

"Are you not aware of what happened?"

"In a rough estimation, yes. Thanks to the data you collected at the Spencer Estate, we realized that all of our biological weaponry was accounted for accept for one. The J-327 project, formerly known as Jessica Trevor. we believe she found her way into the laboratory, and destroyed everything."

"How many are left alive?"

"No one."

"Very well, I can neutralize her and collect anything you wish for me to."

"Well, I'm afraid, Hunk, it won't be that easy. You see, we digitally scanned the underground facility. She's not there."

"Are you trying to tell me that she got out?"

"Yes, that is our estimation. We can guess and make assumptions on where she is now, but judging from her ballistic actions before...she's heading for the city."

Mr. Death was silent. This was bad for Umbrella. Quickly, he began speaking again, "Are you trying to tell me that the J-327 could be attacking Raccoon City and spreading the infection?"

"She as well as any of the carriers that she infected. If they somehow managed to find their way above the labs into the streets, there would be chaos. We can do nothing to control it, that laboratory was in itself the size of the city."

"Quarantine the city."

"The big heads up top think it's too risky, draws too much suspicion to the company and the town."

"So what do we do?"

"We wait. Wait until the city has been completely overrun. As much as our Lord Oswell Spencer hates to see his city go, it is a necessary sacrifice."

"A good choice."

"It is an isolated town, so we should be able to keep the infection from spreading for at least a few weeks. Umbrella will send in a few small highway blockades to anyone who tries to escape. However we believe that the attack will come so swiftly, that the people of the town will have no amount of time to retaliate."

"And then when everything is desolate, I move in."

"Exactly. We will deal with the infected. You however, have two objectives. The first is to obtain a sample of the G-virus from the underground laboratories, as well as any possible research on it."

"Very well, and the second?"

Dr. Forde struggled with his words. His eyes searched about behind his glasses. Something was digging at him.

"Dr. Forde."

"The second involves a man."

"Should I assassinate him?"

"No, we want him alive."

"May I ask why?"

"All I've been told is that he was one of the S.T.A.R.S. members who witnessed what occurred in the Spencer Estate. The ones who accuse us for what happened. I've been told we are to bring him in for research on what he _could_ have contracted from his interactions two months ago."

"But if this particular S.T.A.R.S. member did become infected, he would have surely mutated or become a carrier by now. It's been two months."

"I know, which brings me to the conclusion that he could be the possible proof to Albert Wesker's theory about the T-virus."

"...meaning he is...the perfect soldier?"

"That is my guess, and that is why they want you bring him to us."

"Who is this man?"

"His name is Leon Scott Kennedy."

---September 27, 1998---

St. Teresa's Catholic Church had always doubled as an orphanage, ever since it had first opened nearly a century ago. It was small, as many things in Raccoon City were, but very important to the few children who wound up there. A rundown, modestly-constructed church hiding in the midst of tall oak trees that sprouted up from the park which encircled the building itself. There was a small graveyard in the back where some of Raccoon City's finer citizens had been buried over the decades.

It was a cloudy, cold day. However it wasn't that dark, dismal cloudy. More of a lightly grayed sky that hung over Raccoon City and made everyone want to go home and be with someone else. It was eleven-thirty, and Claire Redfield could hear the serenading music of children laughing as she crossed the small park. Her boots crunched into the leaves, and she inhaled the crisp hair as she brushed her bangs away from her face. She was a little late... well, nearly a half hour late...and Sister Anna was going to give her on hell of an earful once she got in. But Claire didn't care, she loved coming to work at the orphanage. She adored children, and took gladly to the duties she had been allotted.

Claire hastened her steps as her boots clicked against the stone steps, up to the two thick, wooden doors. She smiled, listening to the echoes of children playing and giggling slowly become louder as she stepped into the foyer and went down one of the halls. She walked past the empty classroom's and the pastor's office, all the way to the single door at the far end. "Orphanage Quarters" stood in chipped, old text on the door's window.

Claire reached it and opened slowly, peeking in as the full cacophony of kids on the loose jumped at her. She spied Sister Anna and Mary tending to the children. Sister Anna was a kind, elderly lady who was full of wisdom, more then she let on. Mary was some typical Catholic housewife, obnoxiously squabbling about how loud or "awful" the children were. Thankfully she only worked part time, and she wouldn't even be here were it nor for the short supply of help these days. She and Claire didn't really get along, in her eyes Claire was a "dirty, wild girl who would only learn the error of her ways once she was burning in the fires of hell".

At the moment Mary was scurrying about, squawking at the children for various, pathetic reasons.

"Alex you put that down! Josephine don't treat the dolls like that! Christopher Jeanne Watkins that's now how you play cooking dinner!"

Claire pushed the door completely open and called out, "Hey, kiddos!"

_"Claire!"_ Every kid called out gleefully.

In a galloping, parading mass they scampered over to her and sent out those cheerful cries and pleadings as each one began to beg her and pull at her to come and play with them first.

"Claire! Claire! Come and play dolls-!"

"Won't you help us make the Thanksgiving feast-?"

"Braid my hair again!"

Then the ever vigilant savior Mary broke in, "Angela, darling, you have no need to have _Claire_ mess up your precious hair like that. It's not very church-like."

Claire gave the bitch a look and said monotonously, "Yea, great to see you too, Mary."

"Yes well, I would have say the same were it not for your being half hour late!"

Claire walked past her, the aura of children slowly depleting as they each went back to their little games. Claire approached Sister Anna, sitting in her rocking chair in the far corner and doing that oh so Sister Anna thing...reading the bible as she watched over the kids. Her wrinkled old face occasionally gazing up with watchful blue eyes behind half-circle glasses. She smiled at Claire who took a seat beside her while Mary went off to go pester the children more.

"Good morning, child," Sister Anna said.

"Good morning, Sister Anna."

"You know, you're a bit late."

Claire chuckled, "Gee I didn't think you'd notice."

Sister Anna laughed as well, "Well just don't let it happen again. I understand that college and this waitress job is a very important thing for you, but I believe that the children would find your presence much more enlightening then...Mary's."

Claire smiled, "I know. Last night was just a late night...and..."

Sister Anna took her eyes off of her knitting and brought all attention to Claire's blushing face. She gazed at the young woman for a moment, before smiling, "I know that look."

Claire rolled her eyes with a smile, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Who is he?"

Claire smiled sheepishly, "Well his name's Leon, and he used to work with my brother."

"He used to work with Chris? Oh really..."

"Yea, and he's very polite...a little too polite for my tastes."

"Well, then he certainly wouldn't have fit in with your brother."

Claire laughed. She and Chris had come to this very orphanage when their parents had passed away. In fact, Sister Anna had raised she and Chris herself. Sister Anna and the children were the only reasons that Claire came back to this place, everyone else here was just like good ol' Mary.

"Well anyways, I have a date with him tomorrow night. So I guess we can see just how much of a gentleman he is," Claire said, only her voice had begun to trail off.

In the far corner of the play room, a little girl sat in a chair, staring out into the city through one of the tall, arched windows. Claire watched her with pity and sorrow. The kid's name was Sherry Birkin, she was only ten years old and her parents had died in some sort of accident at work only three months ago. The girl sat staring out the window; her innocent, rounded face plagued by fear and haunted by a ruined life. The girl hadn't said a word since she arrived at the orphanage a month ago. She hardly ate, and almost never slept.

"How is she doing?" Claire asked with her gaze still on the poor thing.

"Oh, considering how she's been she's doing all right. She ate a few bites of her breakfast this morning. I'm just glad the child got out of bed today," Sister Anna said remorsefully, "Claire, dear. You should go and speak with her, you seem to be the only one who she somewhat responds to."

Claire nodded solemnly, and she stood to walk over to Sherry, grabbing a chair long the way.

"Good morning, Sherry," Claire said sweetly, stroking the back of the girl's honey-blonde hair for a second.

Sherry only gazed at her, completely detached from those bright blue eyes.

"Mind if I join you?" Claire asked courteously.

Claire was never fake or superficial with the children. Especially Sherry, Claire could tell that Sherry wanted to be spoken to straight-forward. She was one of those children who's parents induced her to grow up too fast. Sherry only shrugged, that child's unresponsive shrug that they used to cloak up whatever was bothering them.

Claire took a seat and leaned back with a sigh, "You know, when I was your age, I used to go to this orphanage."

Sherry shot her a surprised look, her bangs combed neatly before her eyes.

Claire smiled, glad to get some kind of a rejoinder from the kid.

"Oh yea," she continued, "You better believe it, babe. My brother Chris and I, we used to torment Sister Anna like there was no tomorrow. We used to play out in that park in the summer time. Sometimes we'd even try and escape from this place, I know it gets kinda dull around here."

Sherry looked at her with a kind of sadness, and Claire could tell she wanted to speak. But something was holding her back. Claire's smile faded, seeing the little girl's inner desperation.

"Sherry, sweetheart. You can talk, it's all right," Claire said touching her on the arm briefly.

Sherry looked at her a second longer before abruptly turning her head back towards the window. Damn, Claire thought, she'd been coming so close to opening the kid up. Sherry just needed someone close to talk to again, she needed to confide in an adult. The problem was, the trauma of her parents death had been so great that she couldn't seem to find that trust with anyone else. Claire sighed, "It's okay, Sherry. You don't have to talk, but I think it would be better if you did."

Sherry turned back around to face Claire.

Claire got down low and whispered in the little girl's ear, "Just uh...just so long as you don't squeal like Mary over there."

The little girl smiled and giggled a little, and the sight made Claire smile as well.

---September 28, 1998---

Leon heard the door of the apartment open and slam. He stepped out from the kitchen, setting down the bowl of dog food for Argus to burrow into.

"Hey man! Where the _shit_ have you been?" Joseph called out from behind a wrinkled paper bag of groceries in his hands.

Leon smiled and shrugged, "Just here, work, and the diner."

"Well jesus, man. We live together and I haven't seen you in two days. Don't tell me that's fuckin' normal."

Leon chuckled as he watched Joseph saunter by and set the groceries down on the counter top with his back to Leon. Leaning in the door way, Leon said with his hands in his pockets, "How's the auto shop working out?"

"Same shit, day in day out, man."

"So it's not that great, then?"

Joseph laughed as he lit a cigarette, "Ha, are you kidding me? Getting fired from that piece of shit S.T.A.R.S. job and coming to work for the auto shop is the god damn best thing, man. They let you drink on your lunch break, Leon. On you _lunch break_."

"Sounds like the American dream."

"Hell yea, baby."

"So you don't mind living here with me and Argus?"

Joseph turned to Leon and grinned as he shrugged honestly, "Hey...come on man. Us bein' roomies is great with me. I dig this life."

Leon watched his friend turn back to the counter, Joseph's skin was that reddish color that came from periodically working out in the sun and not caring how burned you got. He still wore his grease-stained muscle shirt and ragged jeans, loosely clinging from his skinny muscles. His curly blonde hair cut short and unevenly by none other then Leon in front of their bathroom mirror. The two had been needing to cut back on a lot of things since their budget had become so trimmed. Haircuts, movies, _real food_. Now they were just stuck with this "Best Decision" crap; some imitation product that was a cheap knock off but didn't completely starve their wallets.

"So," Leon said with his mind on food, "What'd you get at the store?"

"Oh you know just the bare essentials..." Joseph was careful to keep his eyes from making contact with Leon's.

"Joseph..."

"What?"

"What'd you buy?"

"Just some chips, beef jerky...and uh...beer."

"Joseph!"

"What! I can't even buy beer! Fuck man, should I start calling you mom? I mean seriously, what crawled up your ass and decided to puke all over itself before dying!"

"JOseph, you said you would cut back. We don't have the money for all this anymore."

Joseph whipped away from Leon, trying to relax his anger.

"You gotta stop buying beer, Joseph."

Oh, that was _too_ much. Joseph threw the paper bag hard back against the wall, "You know something, Leon? I don't give a _fuck!_ I don't care what we do and don't have the god damn money for! I'm sick and tired of living so fucking quietly, afraid to show our faces when all we do is just make money and come home to the fucking television! That's all we ever do!"

"Don't you get it? Umbrella is watching us! They tore apart Barry's and Jill's houses; Rebecca is still being harassed. They have too much power here and we need to get out."

"Is that all you care about? Getting out?"

Leon was baffled, "How could you not care about that? It's the only way we can keep living decently."

"Oh, oh fine. And just where the fuck do you want to go when we _get out?_ Do you want to live in the deep south? Or how about Canada! No piece of shit town is better then what we have here!"

The two friends were in each other's faces. Argus watched horrified with his tail between his legs and his whimpers completely muffled by the men's yelling.

"What we have here! What we have here, Joseph! I'll tell you what we have here! We've got a town that hates us and a company so powerful they can lute out our entire lives!"

"What makes you say that it would be different anywhere else! We're hated by all of America! And Umbrella is so fucking big we can't go anywhere! The investigation was an international story! Everyone knows about it!"

"Anywhere's better then here, Joseph!"

"Maybe for you, city boy! But I was born and raised in this town, and no matter how much they hate me I would kill for this place. So if you want to go out, be my fuckin' guest, asshole, because you're on your _own_."

Leon stared at Joseph, taken aback by what he had said. All this time they had stuck together, quietly accepting all the shit that had gone wrong. And now...this. Joseph's gaze was both steady and furious but...but it was also tired. Joseph really was exhausted by how they had been living, and it then hit Leon that he was just as far gone. Without saying another word, Leon left the kitchen. He'd settle this dispute later, right now he had a date he had to get ready for.

Leon heard Argus whimper as he walked out across the main room into his bedroom. He flipped on the light and stepped solemnly into the bathroom, closing and locking the door.

There he hovered over the sink, his hands tightly clenching its porcelain rim as he tried frantically to swallow his anger. Joseph had a right to be so pissed off, hell so did Leon. Their lives had been ruined. Now they were nothing but unwanted hermits trying desperately to get away. Leon didn't want this anymore. He and Joseph had to face facts, things _weren't_ going to get better anytime soon so they might as well bite their lips and pray. He relaxed, inhaling deeply until he was calm again.

His irritations disposed of, Leon reached for the door knob, already summing up an apology for his friend. But something stopped him. He froze, his fingers gripping the rusted brass of the knob. Oh god no...not now...please not now. But it was happening.

Beginning as only a stinging sensation just behind his eyes, slowly it began to grow and prosper. He could feel his veins begin to pop and grow, the blood beginning to run like fire throughout his body up to his temples. His eyes began to twitch, and suddenly he was quivering.

"NO!" he cried, but a sudden burst of pain cracked his spine and sent him to his knees.

His ribs felt as though they were being ripped from his flesh, his organs twisted and knotted about each other as his every muscle flexed and flinched, beginning to burst and trickle with sweat through his clammy skin. Heaving, seething pain beat again and again inside his every bone and muscle. He tried to scream but he felt his throat close up, his head felt as though it would split.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill..._

"Leave me alone..." he snarled with a whimper of a broken man, his body suddenly beginning to convulse as he was thrown to the floor in a spasm.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill!_

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he bit into his arm to try and subdue the pain. But it wouldn't stop, only ebbing away at his conscience. He was losing himself, he was going to go back to that awful night, again becoming what he had been. Again he would be that awful killer. He would kill Joseph, Argus, and anyone else that came before him-_No!_

Rising against the tremors that took place throughout his crawling flesh, Leon clambered to his feet and threw open the mirror cabinet, the mirror shattering and raining its silvery fragments down upon the tiled floor. Frantically he took out the metal box, slamming it into the sink and opening it. In desperation, he loaded the first syringe, accidentally stabbing his fingers as he lost more and more control of his muscles. He filled the first needle and thrust it into his arm, feeling the cold liquid of sedation begin to relieve him.

But the feeling was still too powerful, it wouldn't be silenced. Leon let out a soft scream, and fell. His mouth slammed into the edge of the bathtub and blood was hurled from his throat, his body collapsing into the jagged pieces of the broken mirror. Desperately, he filled another syringe and again stuck himself. Another, and another. Four full syringes, and at last he felt the ripping agony begin to wash away.

Breathing in the taste of puke and blood, Leon fell back amidst the tile floor, the glass piercing his skin. In a puddle of his own blood, he began to sleep. He had overdosed, and he knew it. But that didn't matter, so long as everyone else was kept safe from the monster inside of him.

With his last fading thought of the T-virus, Leon blacked out.


	4. Chapter 3: Necropolis

Part II

The swelling of Evil

Chapter three

_"Today's date is the fifth of October, I think. My name is Ben and I'm a news reporter for a local paper of Raccoon City. What I'm about to tell you on this tape recorder will be the most difficult thing for me to say. So, I guess there's no other way to go about it but to start from the beginning... _

"_It began as a simple news report of victims hospitalized for ailments and brutal wounds. So plain, something that was so normal in this modern age of violence we perceive it as nothing but an ordinary five minutes of our ten o'clock news. Little did we know that this single news report was only a seed from which the roots and extending branches of evil had yet to grow._

_"Soon more attacks, like the first, became the centerfold for all media. Dozens of citizens on the outskirts of the city were being mauled by a group of men with numbers gradually escalating. Police reports stated simply that it was a gang, but anyone who had a lick of sense knew otherwise. These attacks were linked to those that had happened a few months before in Raccoon Forest. _

_"The church was opened as a place to help house and nurse the attack victims, their numbers were growing by the dozens. What was worse, they would slip into comas and within hours they would reemerge, only different. The victims became enraged, apparently incapable of human thought and speech. They attacked and mauled anything in sight. The church and hospital became madhouses. Those were the first two places to go...before they were quarantined with the insane victims still ravaging inside. Those two places became the nests of the victims, or as I myself have come to call them, the infected._

_"It was about that time, that the shit really hit the fan. The infected started to form mobs, and they began their onslaught upon this quiet, tucked away little town..."_

_-_Ben Bertolucci, Local news

000

September 29th, 1998

It was the late morning in Raccoon City, the sky heavily clouded with billowy gray and streaks of purple. That smell of rain and hot cement permeated the air, the cold chill of autumn's bony fingers gave everyone a yearning to be inside. Yet the weather was not of concern. All throughout the streets and pubs, the restaurants and workplaces, the schools and playgrounds, rumors were spreading.

Talk filled the ears of the town, whispers about the strange murders, the disappearing of "this one girl my sister knows" or "Did you hear about Ernie?"

Most would phase this off as mere urban legend or worry because of the recent occurrence.

That was a mistake.

000

September 29th, 1998

Police Chief Brian Irons didn't know what the hell to do. In one hand he held a piece of paper, still hot from the fax machine. It was simple, plain white with the Umbrella Corporation's logo in the upper corner. Only five or six lines of text were on the document, with the initials of one of the lords of the corporation as a signature of seniority and purpose. Such a simple piece of paper, but what was stated is what horrified Irons so much. It was the very thing he had been fearing for so long. In his other hand he held a bourbon, a full glass, and his entire body felt cold with sweat as he understand the sudden weight that had plummeted down upon his shoulders.

It had all started out easy, with a check from Umbrella that Irons could not refuse. But with that check came a certain responsibility, that at first Irons thought he could take. But now, now it was too much. Every day, homicides were coming in every goddamn day, and each day the numbers and casualties were growing. Phones were ringing, people were simply running to the police station, asking to stay there or sometimes wanting to _pay_ the officers to stay at their houses and guard them. It was going to be another long night of trying to keep the truth blanketed, and Irons knew it. He knew that being bought into this whole deal was too much, and especially as one of Mayor Michael Warren's advisors.

Of course, not even the mayor knew the truth about all the sudden murders. The truth? What was the _truth?_ The truth was something so impossibly deep, something no one could fathom unless they had been there from the start. The truth was the Umbrella Corporation, the faceless organization that was supposedly the savior of America's fucking economy, was really a tyrannical overlord who wouldn't think twice to smite anyone who got in their way. They created this mess, and now they were bribing Chief Irons to cover it all up and just "let the city be taken."

Carriers, Irons assumed that was the multitude of zombie-looking bastards that had been infected with whatever piece of biological warfare Umbrella had come up with now. But he needed the money, he needed it to come out on top. So he'd done what he was told. He had fired the original S.T.A.R.S. members, they knew too much. He hired a new team, picked out specifically by none other then Umbrella. This new team was corrupt, also under Umbrella's payroll, and they would do anything asked of them. Anything.

But then of course there was keeping the mayor and his whole party in unawares of the situation. Irons had to have his officers, only the officers under the power of Umbrella, to be at every crime scene the minute that it occurred. He wanted the "carriers" taken away and put in quarantine, which was currently a hospital. The hospital was completely walled off, like a prison with no guards. A homeless shelter was another location.

This was all difficult, but Irons managed knowing he was now financially sound. So far, it hadn't been impossible. But this next task, Police Chief Irons knew that God would make him pay for this one. Again he read the fax in his hand, the paper quivering:

**Police Chief Irons.**

**We thank you for your cooperation in quarantining the carriers. You shall be rewarded with the full amount of $2,000,000 if you complete one more task. Release the quarantined victims into the city, by whatever means necessary. See to it that the infection spreads, and officials will be sent in to keep the virus from spreading past the city limits.**

**O.S.**

Police Chief Brian Irons felt his throat swell up. Yet he already knew he was doing it. He reached for the phone and dialed the number for the S.T.A.R.S. office.

"Officer Brady? It's Chief Irons," he said through his fat cheeks and rustled mustache.

"Yes sir, what do you need?" Officer Brady asked coldly, the callousness of his voice had Umbrella written all over it.

"Umbrella wants them released."

"I know. We're leaving now."

"Good, just get it done quickly and quietly. I don't want-"

"We won't be seen."

"...Good."

Irons slammed the phone down on his desk and took a long drink of his bourbon. Barbados. Yes, that's a good place to get away.

000

September 30th, 1998

_"This is reporter Patricia Goldberg reporting live here on the top of a small apartment building at the corner of eighth and Bybee Lane! As you can see from the crowds below, all of Trask district is in utter chaos! This is going to be Channel nine's last message to all of you currently in Raccoon City, get out now. The infection that was quarantined has broken loose into the streets, and a mob of the infected victims has formed, rioting throughout the district. Get out now-Oh my god Tom they're on the roof! They're on the roof run! Run!"-_

-"Citizens of Raccoon City, this is your Mayor, Michael Warren, speaking to you not as your leader, but as one of you. Get out now. Get out while you still can. The infection that our police had held quarantined at the local Raccoon City hospital has broken loose and is spreading rampantly throughout our city in the form of a growing mob. Take whatever you need and leave town..."-

**_-"Where the fuck is government! Where the fuck are the police!"-_**

-"And as we kneel down before the wrath of our mighty lord himself, it becomes clear that this is our day of reckoning. It becomes clear that he shall smite all those who kiss the devil's hand, and he shall reconcile with any who dare to oppose the lord's almighty reign."-

_-"Someone fucking do something! Why are we all alone! Someone help us! Please!"-_

-"As the guardians of Raccoon City, Umbrella Corporation's only concern is your safety. Please remain calm and stay in your houses. Do not, I repeat, do not leave the city's limits. There is no need for panic, it will all be over soon..."

Anarchy reigned throughout the streets. Everywhere there was the sound of cries, the sound of explosions, the smell of fire and of death. And above all, the hot, rotting, evil force that scraped against every door and pounded against every window. The infected mobs ran, pillaged, and smothered the town tucked away into the far reaches of the Raccoon Forest. Glass was shattered, cars were wrecked, and everywhere people were dying. Umbrella's work had truly reached it's darkest pinnacle.

000

"Leon! God dammit Leon open the fucking door!" Joseph Frost's fists hurt from pounding against the heavy door to his friend's room.

The power had been shut off in the apartment, and the only light was the red and orange glow of fire and chaos that peered in through every window. Argus whimpered and barked in the far corner of the living room. Outside the screams and cries were beginning to grow, that cacophony of haunting chants. A thousand deep-throated howls and roars intermingled with wails and high-pitched screams. The sound that had still lingered in Joseph's memory. It was the sound of the dead.

"Oh Jesus..." Joseph cried, his eyes hot with tears and his heart heavy with panic, "This isn't happening man...this isn't fucking _happening_."

But it was, and he knew it. Somehow, Umbrella had found him again. They were taking the entire city, letting it fall to the hands of blood. Suddenly Joseph heard a tremendous crash, and he ran for the window in the living room. He looked out, and his body went cold. The sound was the noise of the doors to his apartment building being splintered open. They were inside.

"Shitshitshit!" he spat through gritted teeth, and turned back to the apartment.

Okay, relax, Joseph. Just assess, there are a couple thousand zombies outside of your apartment building, smelling your flesh, wanting your blood, and your friend is somehow sleeping through it. What do you do? Well hey, there's always the fucking emergency hotline. Joseph jumped over the couch and ran into his bedroom, stumbling over the many clothes, cigarette packs, playboy magazines, and beer bottles to get to the closet.

He threw it open, and there she was. His boomstick. A Remington 870MCS shotgun with a sawed off barrel, accompanied by a belt and vest pocketed with shotgun shells. He threw on the vest and belt, grabbing the shotgun and beginning to load the shells. He ran back out of the dark shadows of his room, grabbing his bandana on the way out. He could hear the screams rise up from below him through the floorboards. They were getting closer. Joseph had to move his ass.

Okay, Joseph decided it was best to just try and break down Leon's door. He ran back across the living room, full charge into Leon's door. It didn't budge.

_"Fuck!"_

Joseph stepped back and aimed the shotgun. No wait, he could hit Leon. Dammit, too much freaking stress, and he didn't have any god damn cigarettes!

Joseph looked around and thought. Even if he did get through that door, what are the chances Leon would even wake up? Joseph couldn't carry him, that'd be too hard. But it wasn't like Leon to sleep like this, maybe he was passed out from something, Joseph had noticed him taking a lot of medication. The thought hit Joseph that Leon might have been in there for the past few days, hell Joseph hadn't seen him once and it hadn't even dawned on him that something was wrong. No time. Joseph tossed the shotgun down on the couch and ran back into his room. He grabbed the dresser against the far wall and heaved.

"Oh! Come on you fat wooden fuck!" he groaned as he dragged it along the floor, slipping and sliding out towards Leon's room. It was a heavy son of a bitch.

Outside the apartment's door he could hear banging, and more screams as other apartments were being thrust open, families exposed to the monsters that were lurking closer and closer. Joseph shoved the dresser against Leon's door, and ran to grab more things. He hoisted the couch up, stumbling and falling and tripping over himself as he pushed it against the door. Next was the leather chair, the dining room table, the big screen TV-...no not the big screen TV. Joseph was just throwing the last few dining room chairs against Leon's door when suddenly he heard the first rattling smack against his apartment door.

Joseph froze, and he felt a wave of utter shock wash over him like ice cold water. They were here. Everything else went quiet, he could hear nothing except for that heavy smashing against the door. He had locked it with every possible lock on the door. But one single thrust from the opposing side told him that that wouldn't save him now. Joseph grabbed the shotgun and moved the last bit of furniture into place, stepping back to take a look at the pile of stuff...that he had piled up against Leon's door. God let it hold, please let Leon be all right.

Suddenly there was a thunderous crack, and the door split and buckled beneath the weight. Joseph's shock washed away, and the deafening noise returned from the streets outside. Joseph stared at the door, his shotgun in his hands, he pumped it once and aimed, his fingers quivering upon the trigger. Where the hell would he go if he got out? The police station. Yea.

Louder and louder the fervent smashing and beating came against the door, the grunting hoots and gnashing screeches echoing and multiplying outside. Their cries becoming one solid mass of noise as they heaved. Argus barked and howled furiously, beckoning them to come in. There was no other way out.

The door burst open, and Joseph screamed.

000

The screams brought Claire Redfield's bones to a chill. She heaved her tired lungs, pushing herself up the stairs to the doors of St. Teresa's church. The children, she could only think of Sister Anna and the children. She stumbled to the top of the stairs and risked a glimpse over her shoulder. She glimpsed the once beautiful park, caught up in a furiously massacring fire. Beyond the park she could hear the wailing, the hopeless sirens, and the roaring. The roaring was awful. A furious, beating, relentless chorus of angry calls coming from that mob of..._things_. Sure they had at one time been considered people, but no longer. Their faces twisted and rotting, their bodies contorted and straggling along, some of them galloping along ravenously. They scorned the streets of the town, and Claire had been lucky to have made it here.

She had seen the news bulletin, the mob that had formed as it broke free like scalding water from the hospital's gates. Her first thought was of the kids and Sister Anna, so she came as fast as she could, dodging through alleyways, and climbing fire escapes to reach the church. Claire paused a moment to let all the chaos soak in, the rushing heat from the fire coupled with the sickening realization that all of Raccoon City was being taken over. She thought of Leon and her brother Chris, what they had gone through, and she instinctively knew that somehow this was linked.

Claire reached for the heavy oak doors of the church, and stopped...the doors were closed. Never, in all her years here, had the doors been closed. She shook the unwanted thought off and pulled with difficulty against the doors, and crept inside.

The massive body of the door slammed shut behind her, silencing the anarchic chaos that reigned outside. All went quiet, and only the orange glow from the fires illuminated the deserted hallway through the stained glass windows. Claire listened to the silence, her despair rising at the absence of children's laughter. The absence of that innocence, the absence of that good feeling replaced now with only a creeping solitude.

Claire's heavy breathing was loud, echoing through the dark hallway. She reached into her jean pocket for her keys and pulled them out, switching on the little flashlight keychain. The milky white light shot out like a beam through the dust. Oh no...

Claire already began to feel the worry inching up her throat and tugging at her, making her want to break down in tears. Her flashlight stabbed the darkness, running up shakily along the walls and floor. Blood was splattered up against the wall, trickling down to splotches that lay scattered about the stone floor. She had to be strong, she had to be strong. Chris would have been strong, she just needs to do whatever Chris would do.

"Sister Anna?" Claire called reluctantly.

There was a sudden echoing crash. Wild, stumbling slamming and stomping approaching her from every possible direction. Another loud crash made Claire jump, stumbling backwards for the doors. Closer and closer, and suddenly the doors in front of her were flung open, and Claire let out a cry as candle light flooded into the room from behind the opened doors. A figure stood in the luminescent doorway, hunched and twisted. The figure was coughing and twitching horribly, and Claire could just barely see a nun's dress stained with crimson.

"Sister Anna!" Claire gasped.

Claire moved to run for the poor woman but something inside her told her not too. Her leg muscles felt the want to edge forward...but she couldn't do it. Claire looked at the figure of Sister Anna, who was gasping hoarsely now.

"Sister Anna..." Claire said cautiously, "Where are the kids?"

Sister Anna suddenly twitched, jerking her head back with a sort of spitting cough, her fingers curling tightly. In the dark orange candle light behind her, her face was masked, yet the glistening of her wet flesh was distinct. She began to walk closer to Claire in sudden, bursting steps halted only by the need to catch her balance. Claire took another step back, her hands instinctively reaching for a pocket knife Chris had given her for her fifteenth birthday.

But it was Sister Anna. The woman had been such a kind mentor to Claire for years. She could feel her heart beat rampantly, her breath drawing shorter and faster as Sister Anna began to moved closer towards her in that stumbling, intoxicated way.

"Sister Anna please...just tell me where the kids are..." Claire was on the verge of tears, fearing the monster she knew her mentor had become.

Claire had seen it on the news. But she couldn't accept it, that the woman who had practically been her mother was now...a monster. Claire stumbled against the wall, the cold wood pressing hard against her back. Claire felt her fingers slip about the pocket knife, opening the blade. she stared at the oncoming demon.

Sister Anna snarled and croaked, coming into the light that sauntered in through the windows. It was then that Claire could see every unwanted detail of the ragged woman's face. Her wild eyes were a dirty white and red, the skin on her face swollen and wrinkled with puss and blood. Her forehead was torn open, and there were teeth marks where someone had dug their teeth in and snagged along her cheek. Her bloated, torn hands extended, her mouth gaped open wide as she reached out for Claire's figure in the corner. Closer.

"I'm sorry!" Claire screamed as she stabbed out with the knife.

She thrust the knife into the woman's soggy forehead, and her heavy body buckled and collapsed to the floor, her head opening wide from the blow; the splattering contents slipping out amidst chunks of white skull.

Claire gasped in the silence, her eyes fixated upon the crumpled body of her old teacher. The knife dropped from her quivering hands, and she inhaled in a heaving gasp. What if Sister Anna had just wanted help? What if she wasn't crazed like the people in the mob? God...Claire didn't know. She felt the hot tears begin, but she stopped them dead. She gasped for air but received only that hot, crusting taste of rot. She had to maintain. She had to keep focus and find the children. They could still be alive, and she knew that they were her responsibility now.

Claire slid along the wall passed the lifeless body of Sister Anna, on towards the room that she had come out of. There were dozens of candles pushing their hot, orange glow out from the doorway. Sister Anna had let them for prayer. As Claire moved along the wall, coming closer and closer to the dim glow, she noticed the trails of blood smeared along the doors to the main room of worship.

No longer did the children's laughter come to her ears. No longer did that sweet feeling of innocence touch her skin warmly, but a new feeling dragged along her flesh like rusted nails. She came to the doorway, the candles flickering and sashaying their orange glow amidst the ebbing darkness. Claire squeezed her flashlight. The cathedral of the church was empty, save for the warm glow of the candles for prayer. Sister Anna had let probably lit them...

Blood lay in puddles amidst the aisles and rows of the long, empty benches. The carpet felt wet, squishing with gushing sounds beneath Claire's boots. The tall cathedral was black, the shadows of evil cloaking themselves over the face of god. Claire's flashlight moved shakily about the floor. At last the silvery light came to the alter, and Claire saw them. The children, lying together in a pile of scarlet. Oh god no...

It was a relentless sin. It was an omen, Claire realized as she saw the children crumpled there in that pile. They were all dead. Claire collapsed to her knees, cupping her hand over her mouth and dropping the flashlight.

"Claire?"

Claire screamed and turned round, scrambling for the flashlight to shine its gaze behind her. The figure of a scrawny little girl looked at her shakily, the child's eyes stricken with horrors that they were far too young to see.

"...Sherry!" Claire gasped, the warm waters of relief washing over her.

Claire sat up and let the little girl run into her arms, squeezing her happily. She could feel Sherry's body quiver as she began to cry, suddenly talking so rampantly it seemed she couldn't stop:

"Claire! I'm scared! Sister Anna told us to hide in this big room! She lit all the candles and told the other kids to pray! But the bad men came! They were angry...they took Sister Anna away. She got mad too...and then they got mad at the other children and-"

"Shh," Claire said, pulling away from her embrace only to look into Sherry's bright blue eyes and stroke her hair protectively, "Baby it's okay now. I'm gonna take care of you and the bad men aren't going to get us."

Claire saw Sherry's worried eyes, those big blue diamonds still encompassed with tears. She quivered as she asked worriedly, "You promise?"

Claire did her best to smile, "With all my heart."

Sherry smiled a little too, and Claire was just so thankful she had gotten to her.

"Now," Claire said with a sigh, "We've got find-"

Suddenly a horrendous scream broke out from the benches of the chair, and Claire felt a massive body tackle her from the side. She heard Sherry's scream as she threw the figure away from her. It was a man, his decrepit flesh soaked in blood. His long hair and beard caked with crimson and torn flesh, his teeth rotting and falling from his liquid gums. Claire looked at his furious eyes, those white furious eyes. She could see death on him, and she realized who he was. He was the intruder, one of the men who had killed Sister Anna. He was one of the men who killed the children.

"Sherry! Run!" Claire yelled to the little girl, who sat curled up into a bawl in tears.

Sherry moved to do as told, and the man charged for her. He wasn't like the other people in the riot. He was fast, he was insane. Claire jumped to her feet and collided with the man hard, sending him into the rows of benches. Her shoulder hurt where she had hit him, it was like hitting a soggy brick wall. She looked at him, staring at her now through his strands of hair with that crooked, rotting face. That's when it hit her, through every movie and every horror novel she's ever seen. Zombies.

The man tried to stand but Claire grabbed the end of the one of the benches and rose it over his head. She brought the thick leg down upon his throat, decapitating him in a massive rupture of red and flesh. She turned to Sherry, breathing hard.

"See, sweetheart?" she gasped, realizing how much she was acting like Chris would have acted, "I'm here to take care of you."

She took Sherry's hand, the girl staring up at her in complete shock at what she had just done, and the two went for the basement of the church. Claire decided it was the best place until things cooled over. They'd head for the police station after that. It was then that Claire realized Sherry had spoken to her for the first time.

000

"_There will be a time when anarchy shall walk the earth. Blood will run as rain does, and the screams of children shall be heard as the howls of the wind. _

_It will be a time when humanity is no longer humane, a time when justice is no longer just. It will be our Day of Reckoning. _

_May God have mercy on our pitiful souls."_


	5. Chapter 4: Awaken to the Dead

Chapter Four

October 3, 1998

A cold, hard floor. Wet, matted hair pressed against his cheek, his mouth dry and sticky. His body weak and trembling with dehydration. Bits of fragmented thoughts flickered in his mind as he opened his blurred, confused eyes. Swarming about him was the volatile, silver black of night. Leon Scott Kennedy awoke and gradually swam out of the unattached waters of his slumber. Silence.

He rose to his feet, the hot sweaty feeling of a fever sending incongruous chills down his back and face. He shook his head, opening his eyes wide in that dazed, disillusioned way. The darkness cut away at his sight, and he took a hazy moment to allow his eyes to adjust. Empty syringe needles were littered amongst the floor; dry blood smeared along his arm where he had been cut by the shards of the broken mirror. Finally it came to him that he was in his bathroom, and that he had overdosed on the sedatives that now lay scattered at his feet. And when did he break his mirror? And _Jesus_ his head hurt.

Leon reached for the light switch, feeling about the wall until his fingers pinched the icy plastic. He flicked it up...and nothing happened.

"What the hell?" he whispered hoarsely.

Well, maybe the light bulb was out. Either way, his eyes had pretty much adjusted. In actuality, with the T-virus running through his veins, Leon didn't really need the light. He could see through the dark just fine. Nevertheless, light really was more of a comfort now.

Leon turned on the faucet and cleaned the blood off of his arm, looking at his exhausted, decrepit self in the mirror. He needed a shave, something to drink, maybe a couple of beers while he was at it.

Throwing away the used syringe needles, Leon tried to remember what all had happened the night before he had sedated himself. He and Joseph had fought just as he was getting ready for something...

Leon was about to splash his face with cold water when suddenly the faucet belched. He pulled his hands away instinctively. He watched, listening to that unnatural gushing, spurting sound as the faucet began to gurgle and throw up. The water was brown and...well guessing from the dank smell that came crawling out, Leon wasn't so sure it was even water. Dammit, he'd have to check with maintenance and the idiot running the plumbing system. A shower was considerably out of the question.

Taking off his shirt, Leon stepped out into his bedroom, feeling a cold chill adhere to his skin. He stumbled over objects blanketed by the blackness as he made his way to his closet. There he threw on a clean t-shirt and jeans, running his fingers through his long hair to sort of comb it. The cold, hard wood floor gave him initiative to put on a pair of socks and his sneakers as well. As he moved about his room, Leon felt a tingle of consciousness. Something didn't feel right about the apartment. Leon always left his trust with his subconscious, and at the moment it was buzzing. He recognized that feeling, the feeling that he was back in that mansion, two months ago.

Then it was his stomach's turn to tell him what to do. Geez, it felt as though it were on the verge of collapse. He yearned for a glass of water and a couple of Joseph's BLT's. Leon hadn't done anything but sleep for God knows how long, no wonder his stomach felt so decrepit and empty.

Leon opened the door to the rest of the apartment and stopped, confused. A massive dresser stood blocking the doorway, pressed right up against the frame and completely blocking him off from the rest of his apartment.

"Joseph...what the hell man..." Leon grumbled, suddenly very worried that Joseph had thrown some sort of party.

The aftermath of a Joseph kegger, yea that's just what Leon needed right now. His head throbbed, and he pressed his hands into the dresser. There was a lot of weight, probably more crap set up behind it. But why the hell would Joseph want to do that? Even the thought of an inebriated Joseph conjuring up some idea such as stockpiling furniture against Leon's door didn't seem to have any logic behind it. Baffled and not willing to care, Leon shrugged. He could try to just push it out of the way. It was a good time to see what this T-virus inside of him could do.

He put his hands around the edges of the dresser, slowly leaning in. He could feel his aching back and chest muscles being flexed as he began to push the weight away. It felt light enough, he could have toppled the whole pile of stuff over without breaking too much of a sweat, but Leon didn't want to hurt anything. He moved it all away from the door, just enough so that he could squeeze out into the family room and get a good look at this blockade of furnishings.

What the crap.

Joseph had probably piled every single piece of furniture in the apartment against Leon's door. Why? - Screw it. At this point, Leon didn't care. He turned and stumbled into the kitchen, scratching his head with the last bit of drowsiness flaking away.

Everything was pitch black with only the blue glow of the moonlight through the studio windows. Well, shit. The entire apartment's power was dead. It was freezing cold, Leon could see his breath as it was omitted from his chapped lips. The chills had set into his skin, and Leon was shivering uncontrollably. Then of course there was the dark. The dark was like a mask for the apartment, transfiguring everything into a twisted, cruel form of itself. It kept the details vague, isolating Leon from everything except the cold and the solitude. Dark was a reality that kept perception inexplicable.

"Joseph!" he called.

No answer. Leon folded his arms and hunched his shoulders as he sauntered down the hall towards Joseph's room at the end. The door was closed. That was weird. Joseph's door was never closed. It had been his sort of way of coping with the incident two months ago. He always had kept the door open, Leon assumed it was just a comfort factor in knowing he wasn't so cut off from the rest of the world. But it was closed now...

Leon went for the door and extended one of his folded arms. He clutched the handle-

-and immediately froze, his body becoming impossibly cold with a new awareness of something terribly wrong.

He kept his hand there for a minute, his fingers feeling something different about the door. His breath shivering all the more as he tried to bring his eyes down to look at the door knob.

Slowly he pulled his hand away from the door, feeling a sticky residue cling desperately between the doorknob and his finger tips. It was wet, slippery, and chilled. It was blood. Thick, infected blood.

Leon panicked and, without thinking, heaved his shoulder into the door. It slammed with a crash against the wall, and the smell came at Leon like a wretched phantom. It was the festering, hot, clinging smell that snaked through Leon's lungs and nostrils. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't scream.

The walls were painted with lashed streaks of red. Splatters thrown up against the wall. Dripping from the ceiling, the crimson was soaked into the sheets of Joseph's ragged bed. The floor was spotted with thick, gooey puddles that stuck and grabbed at Leon's sneakers. Blood. Blood was everywhere. But Joseph was gone.

"Joseph!" Leon cried, turning and sprinting back into the apartment.

He ran and slid to the front door. It had been broken open. Not just the lock, not just the hinges, but the entire door had been splintered right down the middle. Another collage of blood and blackish fluid in the form of hand prints was scattered along the door, in massive blotches on the floor and running down the walls.

"_Joseph where are you!"_ Leon screamed as loud as he could, the horror slowly being pierced by realization.

There were holes in the walls, singed in black around the edges. They were bullet holes. The smell of rotting flesh ebbed and flowed like thick, polluted mud throughout the entire apartment, and that feeling. That distinct, creeping, tingling, twitching, edging, scraping, undeniably sick feeling that Leon had felt only once in his entire life. The epiphany of true fear.

Leon raced to the phone. Bringing the receiver to his ear, he felt the icy knife of helplessness sink deeper into his stomach. The phone was dead. Leon had to pause and listen for a moment to the lack of electric life from the ear piece, and as he did his pale green eyes caught sight of the outside through the kitchen window.

"Oh no..."

Leon dropped the phone upon the kitchen counter, drawn towards the window and the horror it beheld.

"Oh Jesus...please not again..."

An apocalypse.

The streets of downtown Trask district were of black shadow and lit only by the dancing orange of grim fire. Cars were crumpled and thrown upon sidewalks, windows were broken open, papers fluttering about in that cliché manner of a land left in abandonment. Tattered, rotten, scorched, defiled ruins; and from those ruins came nothing. No sounds, no cries, no laughter, nothing.

Leon stepped back from the window, turning back to face the darkness of his apartment. He swallowed the pulsing nerves that pleaded with him to panic, bracing himself against the countertop. His mind was flurrying: Where is Joseph? What had happened? How? When? Where is everyone? Are they all dead or has the city been evacuated?

Leon stumbled out of the kitchen, his mind refusing to slow. Questions continued to formulate, growing more and more complex upon one another's shoulders. And the fear. The fear was unstoppable. It came to Leon like every nightmare he had ever had. Deep inside his veins he knew all too well what this was. Umbrella was behind this; he knew it.

Leon fled back to his room. What was he going to do? Where was he going to go? Was the entire city even like what he'd seen outside? Was this even real? Was it just another nightmare? Maybe it was all a hallucination from the sedatives? No!

Leon stopped and gulped breath through his shivers, he slumped against his dresser, thirsty and exhausted. Whatever the case was, Leon had to do something. He opened his closet. Pushing aside his shirts, Leon took out a Nike shoe box, a heavy weight inside.

Taking his leather jacket, Leon sat down on his bed with the box, the silvery blue of the night swarming about him. There he stared for a moment, watching the box cautiously. He had promised himself the nightmare was over. He had promised himself he would never again dive into that horrible fear. He remembered when he first closed this box, the relief that came with it; the relief telling him he was safe. His fingers moving hesitantly, Leon opened the box.

It was his old gun belt and shoulder strap, the shining chrome of the desert eagle magnum awaiting him patiently. Leon took out the belt and laced it through his jeans, feeling the weight of the pouches containing the .357 slugs for his gun and the flashlight. He then moved into the shoulder straps for the magnum, a grim realization upon his face as he felt the cold steel of the gun in his fingers. He loaded one of two magazines and holstered the weapon under his arm. The grim realization in his eyes grew, and he knew that he had lied to himself. There was no safety.

Stepping out of his room, Leon slipped into his leather jacket and exhaled. He moved to close the door behind him when something caught his eye: a stickie note.

Leon reached over and snatched it from the dresser that had been pressed against his doorframe. His heart rising somewhat, he read the hastily written note upon the paper:

_Leon,_

_City's infected. I'm at police station._

_If it's been too long, don't come for me._

_Joseph_

Screw whether it's been too long or not. Leon folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He was going to the police station.

A calm, lucrative production. The city lay in ruin, nay, in sheer chaos. It were as though the very pillars and stalagmites of hell came searing up from the chilled concrete of Raccoon City. It was turmoil at its finest, and Mr. Death could smell it. He could breathe every mechanized bit of its chemically engineered hellfire. He let it pollute his limitless body.

His chopper wove amidst the growing bushels of smoke, the pilot searching for a safe place to land amidst the hushed aftermath of a massacre. Hunk checked over his equipment, securing the tight plastic and metal, allowing it to dig into his cheek bones. He sighed as he cuddled up against the sharp metal seat of the helicopter. closing his eyes, he allowed visions of his tasks to paint themselves out before him. It wouldn't be too hard, just a routine.

"Hunk, right?" came the ignorance, "Man, I've heard some shit about you."

Mr. Death opened his eyes, annoyed, and lowered a tolerating glance at the pilot.

"I've heard these stories- ...well you know, why they call you Mr. Death."

Mr. Death smiled. This one was more amusing than the others, his ignorance was...entertaining.

"Well hey," the pilot said, searching the scorched ruins for a decent rooftop to land, "Is that why they sent you on this one alone? Cuz...well whenever anyone else goes with you they always die. That's why they call you Mr. Death, ain't it?"

It was an intriguing thing about death in the Umbrella Corporation. Mr. Death could recall his earlier days in the midst of training, the days when he still thought death was some horrific and unexpected event. However, it didn't take him long to understand, that once you join Umbrella, death was simply part of the contract. Death was never glorified, nor was it feared. It was simply and understandably the dissipation of a coworker. It happens.

"Perhaps, you're frightened?" Mr. Death finally spoke, "You could be one of those to join my list of fallen comrades."

"Could be, Hunk."

Good, the boy was unresponsive to a death threat. That or he didn't know it. He was a rookie, so most likely it was the latter of the two. Nevertheless, Mr. Death liked his attitude, and hoped he would be flying the chopper that came to pick him up at the rendezvous point following his task completions.

"Hunk. We've found our landing spot. I'm going in for a quick drop off."

The chopper slowly descended towards a stable-looking rooftop, one of those that was higher up than the rest. Hunk rose and came to the hatch, looking down at the open ground and the ushering pull of the loud winds before him. So it begins, another run through of his skills.

"Oh, and Hunk?"

He turned towards the pilot, who had that bastard grin on his face.

"Good hunting."

What a statement. This made Mr. Death smile. He leapt into the shadows below.

"Claire?"

A soft whirring.

"Claire?"

It was getting louder. A radiant thumping that was constant.

"Claire?-"

"Hush. Just a second, baby."

Claire Redfield and Sherry Birkin sat huddled in the shadowy remnants of what was once the playroom for the orphanage. She did not know how many days it had been since the massacre hit the streets, she didn't know how much longer they could remain undetected in the little church. More than once had one of those monsters stumbled into the church, smelling the rotting flesh of corpses. Zombies.

After the massacre, Claire quickly came to terms with the fact that the living dead were currently populating the discarded streets of Raccoon City. What she had difficulty coping with was the fact that she could provide little to no protection for Sherry Birkin.

The two of them, wrapped in a stiff blanket, clung to each other as they listened to the sounds of the outside world slowly falling apart. Claire would stroke Sherry's hair and distract her with story books and little games, leaving the worries to plague her own mind. The simple facts were obvious: she had not one decent tactic for defense, their meager food supply consisting of the vending machines' goods and whatever could be found in the cafeteria was staggering, and the church itself was seeing more and more "visitors" each day. The stench of the rotting corpses wafted from the chapel, beckoning forth any curious monster.

When the zombies had first broken down the crude blockade that Claire had constructed against the doors, Claire would simply grab Sherry and run for the cellar. However, their was an entrance to the sewer down there, and Sherry became horrified each time they were forced to hide. She would scream of demons in the dark place. Claire had that nagging assumption that every adult takes to roll their eyes and say all knowingly that 'it was just her imagination.' Given the circumstances, Claire was more than willing to reconsider Sherry's wailings as more than just wildly childish nightmares.

So, Claire had sought out another place to hide. The hallway in the left wing that led to the orphanage's playrooms and bedrooms. The windows were all high above ground on the outside and the floor on the inside. The door to the hallway was not entirely noticeably, concealed partially in shadow. It also, thankfully, possessed a lock. Therefore, when a zombie would trudge in with the taste of blood at the edge of his lips, they would run for the hallway.

All eighteen times a zombie or some other horrid creature had come in, fueled by hunger, Claire had made her way to the hallway.

Claire alone would venture out into the rest of the church for food or whatever, armed with nothing more than a candle and the flashlight-turned-club (it's batteries had died out…huzzah). In short, their situation was not a pleasant one, and its value in safety was depleting steadily. Claire knew that soon, they would have to move. She simply did not like the idea.

So now the two sat, huddled in the far corner of the playroom. From the tall arched windows the moonlight shown in. That pale, silver gray as it mixes with the night's blue, the aura of a full moon. They sat between two bookshelves, facing the door across the carpeted floor. About were the scattered toys and playthings of the children. For some particular reason, as Claire listened to that strange sound coming from outside, she could not take her eyes from a ravaged doll amidst the other toys. It was old, made from nothing more than cloth and stuffing. It's blank stare and wide smile faced the ceiling above, it's pudgy little body beneath a flowery dress as it lay strewn across the floor.

The sound that she first heard was again becoming louder. That continual thumping sound, as air was stirred above them. Was it a helicopter? She listened intently, her fingers stroking Sherry's hair nervously as she held the little girl close. Then the sound became distinguishable. It was a chopper. Claire stood abruptly.

"Claire what is it?" Sherry asked louder, her little voice filled with frustration at Claire's distracted behavior.

"It's a helicopter, baby," she said, "Wait right here, I'll be right back."

Claire grabbed the flashlight that sat atop one of those plastic tables for children, the kinds with the yellow surface and the bright cherry red legs. She jogged out of the room and closed the door, calling over her shoulder, "Only open if you know it's me! I'll be right back!"

She took off down the hallway. The sound of the helicopter was not definite, and she had to make herself known. The orphanage, being that it was a newer building than the church, had a flat roof and an easy access to the top. Just a fire escape. She could get up there and…do…something. Claire pumped her legs down the hallway, praying to God that no monsters had found their way into this particular wing.

Through a door, and down another hallway, and she could see the window at the end. Her boots clopped against the tiled floor as she ran, passing by door after door, her eyes staring straight ahead instead of at the many bloody handprints along the walls and windows. She reached the window and grabbed at the handles. Dammit! It wouldn't budge.

The helicopter was close now, the noise was roaring above her. She had to get outside. Frantically she kicked at the window frame, finally able to thrust the first pane of glass open just enough so she could squeeze out onto the fire escape outside.

Once beyond the window, Claire clambered up the stairs, closer and closer. She could see a bright beam of light sifting through the smoke and clouds above. It was a searchlight, the chopper was looking for survivors!

She reached the rooftop and stumbled out past the air conditioners and many pipes leading down into the building. The chopper came into view, a sleek black build with a searchlight just below the cockpit. Claire's heart was pounding in ecstasy. They were saved. Oh thank you Lord, they were saved.

She began flailing her arms and jumping up and down, screaming frantically, "Over here!"

The helicopter seemed to slow in the smoke, not thirty feet above her. The powerful gusts of wind flew down at her, making her stumble somewhat was she waved for the pilot to notice. It's cool, mechanically developed wind felt so incredible as it pushed away the smoke and the smell of death. The light moved like a great eye, swiftly jerking here and there. Finally it's bright beam became fixated on her slender body as she jumped up and down in the air, waving for attention.

"Over here! Dammit come on! Land!"

Then, her jaw dropped and her eyes went wide. The helicopter swerved away and began to move back into the clouds. Claire watched as it reached for the distance, the moonlight still glinting on its shiny black body. As it grew farther and farther away, she saw something. An octagon looking symbol, with red and white triangles. It was the symbol for the Umbrella Corporation. Anyone from Raccoon City would have recognized it.

The chopper was eventually gone. Again she was encompassed only by the gently gasping winds as they fluttered mindlessly through her hair. Only the sounds of distant crackling gasoline fires and the caws of crows as they feasted upon the dead could be heard. She stood their, in utter disbelief. The pilot had seen her, she knew it. He had just stared at her, and then left. No words, no acknowledgement, not even an attempt to land. Now it was gone, leaving the odor of the dead to again come back to her. She hated that stench. She hated this church, what it had become. She hated this place.

"No!" She screamed into the night, throwing the dead flashlight amidst the air conditioners, "It's not fair! I don't-!...No! That's not fair!"

She kicked at one of the air conditioners and collapsed against it, brushing her hair out of her face as her cheeks grew hot and became etched with tears. She sunk, sitting down against the cold metal, and looked up at the sky, trying to pretend that she wasn't in some hell. Trying to pretend that everything was okay. She was just on her break at the diner.

She couldn't do it. She had to stay firm and under control, otherwise things wouldn't be normal again, they wouldn't make it out. What would Chris have done? Claire couldn't help but smile through the tears as she thought of her older brother, the hero. He wouldn't break down about this. Chris was strong, and Claire was certain that he was here right now, watching over here. In their little church that they grew up together, she was still alive and she knew it was because of him.

Defeated yet hopeful, she stood and picked up the flashlight-club, making her way past the air conditioners towards the fire escape. She was hungry, and she knew Sherry was. That little girl was so strong. She never complained, never antagonized, just sat their and agreed or disagreed. She was like a little adult, and while Claire thought it was nice, she knew it was wrong. Children should be children, they should be allowed to play and joke and wail and nag all they want. Claire wanted that for Sherry, and she knew that would be her determination for getting out of here. To give Sherry that kind of child hood. That and…well…the whole not being eaten thing was a nice thought as well.

She slipped in through the window and closed it, beginning the walk back to the playroom. Perhaps she'd see if Sherry wanted a candy bar or something. It wasn't healthy, but it was food.

She reached the main reception room that branched off into the other smaller hallways and stopped. The double doors to her left were wide open. The doors that led to the church. Claire stood in the shadow, looking at the bleak light that shown through the doorway, staring at the sweeping, uneven footprints that trailed through and dispersed throughout the other hallways of the orphanage.

The smell of death was back, and it seemed to lurk in every shadow of the room, watching her. They were here, they had somehow gotten in, and they were here.

Claire looked at the hallways around the reception room she was in. Their were two others. One was at the opposite end of the square-shaped room, the other was to her right, opposing the doors to the upper balcony of the church.

Trembling, Claire clutched the flashlight and stepped towards the doors that led to the church. She looked at the lock that now lay in parts upon the floor. The other sides of the doors had long, bloody scratches upon their surface. The monsters had known they were there. They had known, and they were just patiently plowing through the door this entire time.

Then she heard it.

A low, hissing sound. It came out soft, making a whistling sound as it formed into a quietly croaking groan. The sound was followed by a squashing, mushy thump. It was behind her.

Claire turned, her breath quivering as she looked over her shoulder. Shadow surrounded her as she stood in the rectangular form of light that pierced the darkness from the doors behind her. She could see her timid shadow in the rectangle of light upon the tiled floor, and whatever was in the darkness could see her.

Suddenly more squishing sounds, deliberate and fast as they waddled towards her. Moist footsteps. Claire wanted to scream.

Then she saw it.

Pale, yellowish green eyes without pupils or irises stared back. They looked at her crookedly, and beneath them she could barely make out the awkward, uneven glint of jagged teeth. Before it came into the light, Claire knew what it was. She knew who it was. The eyes didn't stand more than three feet off of the ground.

Claire began to cry as she watched the child waddle awkwardly out from the light, looking at her. The little boy's head was cocked to the left and back upon his hunched shoulders and slashed throat. His body had become bloated, and now hung in pus covered bulges of fat over the t-shirt and shorts. The boy just looked at her, mouth gaping, blood staining his shirt and the purplish blue skin.

Then she heard a scream, and Claire bolted past the boy just as it reached for her. She flew down the hallway that led to the playroom.

"Sherry!" she screamed, "Sherry I'm coming!"

The hallway ahead was L shaped, making a turn to the right and away from the light produced from the windows. Claire came to the corner and slid on her boots, slamming into the wall. From here she could see the door to the play room swung wide open, the moonlight emitted from the doorway.

The stench was strong as Claire ran for the door. It plagued the school halls and weakened her perception. She came to the doorway of the play room and screamed.

Sherry had clambered atop a toy shelf, now clinging desperately as it was shaken by a group of the demons. Through the moonlight of the high arching windows she could see them. Their pale eyes and gaping mouths and all of their sickly glistening bodies were illuminated by the moon's pale glare. The heaved at the toy shelf, all at once, in a sweeping movement, all groaning and spitting as they pushed against it, trying to knock it over. Sherry cried as she looked at all of their fierce, hungry eyes, their glare wanting her young flesh.

"No!" Claire screamed as loud as she could, grabbing the only thing she could find.

A broom.

She snapped the wooden handle in half, and held the two pieces like swords. The zombies slowly stopped rocking the shelf and turned to Claire. There were eight of them. She didn't hesitate as the first one lurched forth, a young man in a business suit, shuffling forward awkwardly. Claire stabbed it through the school with half of the broom stick, watching it fall back limply. The others came in upon her as she tried to strike at them.

"Sherry! Run!" Claire called, "Get out of here!"

The zombies kept progressing slowly, coming in closer and closer. Their weakened, decrepit hands were outstretched and wanting and their teeth gnashed at their ragged gums. Claire was backed into a corner, the zombies coming in closer and closer. They moved in mass, shuffling together, hunting together. For each one she beat down or stabbed, another was there to take its place until it again stood. Oh God there were too many of them, Claire choked as they came in closer, staring at her hungrily.

The nearest one reached out to bite at her and she kicked and struck it, horrified and crying. The others were in closer now. Claire, hunched into a corner, put out her hands and pleaded to God to receive her soul in heaven. She shut her eyes, then…as she felt their breath upon her, her racing mind flashed to one image: Chris.

She opened her eyes, and looked at them, all of them. They had been the ones to kill Chris. He had died like this. She couldn't fall the same way, not as long as Sherry needed her. The first zombie reached back out, clutching her last half of the broomstick and trying to take it from her. Claire looked at him, furiously, and tore his arm clean from its socket.

She stood, spurts of blood showering the walls and the shadowy figures around her, and beat back the remaining zombies with a broomstick and the still twitching arm. She could see Sherry behind them, huddled behind a book shelf. In one movement Claire jumped into the mass of zombies, pushing through, feeling their fingernails scratch and their hot breath and wet hair on her neck. She was now surrounded by the zombies, blanketed by shadow and held back by the groping hands. They felt at her, grabbed, and snapped their teeth. No.

Claire broke through, falling on the floor away from them. Quickly she stood and flung the arm at them.

"Sherry!" she extended her hand and the little girl took it.

The two burst out of the playroom and down the corridor.

"Claire!" cried Sherry, "Where are we going!"

"We have no choice, Sherry, we're going to the sewers," Claire explained regrettably. She knew Sherry wouldn't like it.

"What! No! There are the monsters!-"

"Sweetie!" Claire stopped for a minute and knelt down to Sherry, holding her at the top of the stairs that led down several flights to the sewer doors, "I believe you, trust me I do. But…there are monsters everywhere, and I don't think that there will be as many down in the sewers, okay?"

The girl looked at her, and Claire could see the trust just seeping from her eyes.

"Sherry…" Claire pleaded, "Please trust me. I promise I won't let anything happen to you, okay?"

Before Sherry could respond they both heard a rampant thumping of footsteps flying down the corridor towards them.

"Oh no," said Claire, it was one of the fast ones.

The monster burst into the room before the stairs and didn't hesitate as it tackled Claire.

"Claire!" Sherry called out.

Claire and the demon toppled down the stairs, landing on the platform below, the demon on top. Claire had both its hands and her knee on its chest, trying to push it away from biting at her face. She could see the teeth as the gums had been torn loose, and the lips dangled loosely and gently tickled at her chin, leaving little smears of blood and saliva as it began to growl and sneer at her, the glowing eyes staring wildly. Shaking violently, the demon's mouth drew closer, yearning for her as it howled and groaned in frustration at her resistance.

Suddenly a little foot kicked at the demon, and both it and Claire looked up to see Sherry kicking at it. The distraction was perfect. Claire grabbed the bottom jaw of the demon and ripped it clean out. It reared back and she grabbed at its tangled, matted hair. She twisted it to the side, snapping the demon's neck, and it fell limp on top of her.

"Oh, God," Claire shuttered as she pushed it off and came to her knees, panting.

"Are you okay?" Sherry asked.

"Yes…yes sweetie," Claire replied, hugging her, "I'm all right."

Above them, the other howls began to get louder.

"Come on," Claire said, taking the little girl's hand.

The two followed the rest of the stairs down into the basement where they found the heavy metal door labeled "sewers." Claire opened it and the two disappeared inside.


	6. Chapter 5: Taken to the Streets

Sorry for the delay, everyone. College is rather demanding. Anyways, here you are. I'm hesitant on where I'm going with this so anyone who has any inspirational ideas you are a godsend.

* * *

Chapter Five

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. " - Nietzche

Leon's converse sneakers scraped against the broken glass along the sidewalk of Bybee lane. He stepped out into the street, walking past a car that had been crumpled against a crooked light post, the engine still coughing up smoke and licking flames. Through the fire, Leon could make out a scorched body, contorted and crushed amidst the jagged steel of the car. The night hung suspended over the city, infecting everything with darkness.

The old brick buildings loomed over him, they looked like a painting that had been doused in black oil. Everything was at one time so quaint, so relaxing. Leon could still recall driving down this road, looking at all the art deco style buildings as he passed, the occasional tree rising up from the sidewalk, children playing at a broken water main. It was iconic. And now all was charred, smeared by darkness and blood. Smoke rose from scattered locations to form an overhanging demon above the city, ever-vigilant over Leon as he stalked the abandoned streets. To think, this town would never be the same again. Perhaps it would be rebuilt, perhaps it could saved, or destroyed. Either way, this was an ugly scar on the face of history. What if it wasn't just Raccoon City?

Leon stopped walking for a minute, the thought in his head making him dizzy. What if Umbrella had done away with more than just this town? What if they had stricken the entire state, or the country with the virus. What if it was spreading throughout the veins of mother earth as he walked in the abandoned aftermath of its chaos. No, this didn't make sense. Something about this was wrong, why would Umbrella intentionally infect the city? This town was a major display of their business, and their very foundation. The thought of them destroying something they were so heavily attached to seemed to twisted to be intentional.

Leon jumped at the sound of a shrill caw. He stumbled amidst the debris in the street. Upon telephone wires that crossed the sky above the street, dozens of crows sat perched and watching. Their hoarse cries resounded throughout the city on the foul, chilled breeze. Their beady eyes stared hungrily, waiting for him. The entire city smelled sick.

The only life were him and the crows above, their feathered, black bodies sat on the telephone wires, fat and content. The trees stood now, dead, their withered empty branches like gnarled fingers that pointed towards the black sky. Winds wavered and swam through the streets and about Leon, kissing and softly biting at his cold cheeks and nose as they passed. The smell of a hospital and rotting, festering dead sat upon the wind's breath.

There was something that worried Leon: he had found no bodies so far. Nothing. It were as though he was truly alone in the apocalypse. As he walked the road came to a T-junction as it was cut off by Grant Ave. Leon looked up at the building before him. "Grady's Inn" in large neon letters, their glow absent and now they were nothing but dull yellow tubes of glass. Beneath the sign was another…an ad for "Umbrella: Here to keep the rains of sickness off your shoulders."

Leon stood there, his leather jacket and hair waving in the foul winds as they passed about him. In one hand he clutched the large magnum, in the other he held the folded note that Joseph had left. His deep emerald eyes stared at the insignia: that red and white octagon. He hated Umbrella.

Leon looked around him, taking in more of his surroundings. Down on his left Grant Ave led to the main drag. Their was a small park encased by a black iron-wrought fence. A series of police cars sat smashed up against one another, scattered clubs and S.W.A.T. gear lay scattered about the streets. In the distance Leon could see the corner where he'd walked gleefully away from not too long ago, holding that girl's number in his hands.

Claire.

Leon didn't know why but he felt a sudden rush of concern for her. Was she all right? He prayed she wasn't hurt and-…Oh shit! That's what he was supposed to do, take her out on a date!

Leon sighed, his visible breath billowing out from his lips in the rain. He had to get to the police station.

Leon looked down the other end of Grant Ave where it headed off into the suburbs. It was settled, he would head towards the main drag, and take that to the police station. It was the most direct route unless he were to cut directly through the alley ways, and that was something he would have to keep from doing.

Leon shook his head, slicking the hair out of his eyes as he watched another paper dance past him on the wind. This was too cliché.

That was when Leon heard the moaning.

A low, croaking grunt.

Leon turned, the magnum pointed towards the streets and allies all around him. His hair fell back before his intense eyes, their bright green darting back and forth into the night.

Another groan, louder…or was it just closer? Then a laugh.

Leon began to quiver behind the secure weight of the magnum in his hands. It was his only shield against evil now.

A laugh. Not loud or sharp but a dull slow chuckle that began to echo with the rising croaks and groans. Suddenly Leon heard a sharp, loud hooting sound, a deep guttural grunt that called out like a gorilla. More and more, the sounds began to prosper, growing upon one another, and all the while that gruff, low chuckling fueled the noises.

Leon stepped out into the streets, away from any walls or buildings, spinning slowly, the magnum outstretched and ready. Then suddenly, he heard the car behind him shake, and he turned just in time to see a hunched figure leap atop its hood.

"Shit!" Leon cried as he stumbled back, staring at the man atop the car, his wild red eyes glaring as he cocked his head to the side.

The figure triggered Leon's memory. He recognized it. One of the fast ones. He recognized that smell of medical death and limp flesh as it decays and falls from the bone. Joseph had called them crimson heads, out of a nightmare he had continued to have since the incident two months ago. Now Joseph's nightmare stared at Leon, hungrily spitting through its yellow teeth.

"Get the fuck away!" Leon bellowed, slinging the magnum forth and firing a solid shot into the eyes of the nightmare.

He turned to escape but stumbled in petrifaction, his sneakers losing traction as he stared at them. All of them. They stood in mass, circling about him, some of them quickly leaping forth upon cars and buildings, others dragging their feet or crawling upon the ground. They had become an army, and now they were after him. The dead. The infected.

All of them, their uneven heights and contorted figures emerging from the shadows, torn in pieces, missing limbs, their bloated faces popping with blood and pus as they gnawed themselves down to their bones. Some of them snickered as they came from the darkness, others rolled their heads, their wild eyes all the while on him as they stumbled out.

Leon looked at all of them, smelling the hatred, the festering dead, the stench of the T-virus as it pumped through every one of their infected veins. He didn't know if it was that smell, or the gold and red glow of their eyes, but Leon lost it. The t-virus began to awake inside him, and he felt the beast begin to wake.

His arms quivered, his eyes began to glow, and his muscles began to quake beneath his skin, molding and preparing.

"Dammit, no!" he cried, his fingers clutching at his forearms, "Not now!"

What the hell was happening? Was he becoming one of them?

"Get away!" he roared, spit dangling from his lips as he collapsed to his knees, his muscles twisting.

The zombies reached out, and he wrenched his body back in refusal, taking off in a sprint. He shouldered into them, checking them into others as he ran away. Every zombie he passed was too slow to turn and reach him. Behind him, the fast ones tailed, weaving through the crowd in pursuit. They ran like animals.

Leon fired behind him as he ran, pumping his legs as he pushed himself through the smoke and the dark street. The crowd wasn't that big, maybe forty or fifty of them, and they were scattered out.

One of the fast ones leapt into the air at him and he catapulted a slug from the magnum directly into the demon's chin, sending it into a back flip towards the ground.

Leon remembered that at the mansion they were at first scattered and easily avoided, but they soon began to group together until they formed an army. They were doing the same thing here, building and building. He had to get out of the city before they all found each other.

Leon cut a left down an alleyway a ways down the street from the mass that was slowly making their way towards him. The crimson heads, however, were right behind him.

A large utility truck had blockaded off the other half of the alleyway, and Leon easily jumped and slid with his back along the hood, rolling to his feet on the other side. He rose and began to fire at the crimson heads as they tried to all squeeze over the truck after him. There were only a five or so, and he carefully plucked them off one by one as he backed deeper into the alley.

He watched the last crimson head fall atop the pile of its brethren that had grown atop the hood of the truck, their blood running down the white paint. Leon sighed, that should give him some time. He turned around. It was a dead end. A tall, graffiti-stricken wall stared back at him, and he could only turn right into a small shop, its lights out. The pink neon sign that still glowed above read "Kendo's Gun Shop."

Leon reached for the door which, surprisingly, was unlocked. He stepped inside, feeling the hot breath of ventilation as he shut the door behind him. So, the power worked, which means the lights weren't out…they were just shut off. Someone could still be living-

"Freeze!"

The click of a shotgun tickled Leon's spine. He couldn't see much in the immediate darkness of the shop, but a single light hung above a figure behind the counter. The figure had a double barreled shotgun pointed at Leon.

the figure demanded in the voice of an old man, "Who are you? What the fuck are doing here-?!"

"Whoa whoa, don't shoot me! I'm not infected!" Leon snapped back, at the same time wondering if he could take a direct blast to the chest.

The man paused, watching him intently, the shotgun still suspended in tension. The two stood quietly at opposite ends of the room.

At length, Leon spoke, "Are you serious? Come on! I can talk and I even closed your door!"

The man frowned and let out a sigh, letting the shotgun dangle at his side, "Whew! Sorry about that."

He stepped out from behind the counter, pieces of glass cracking beneath each footstep as he approached Leon at the door.

"What happened to the city?" Leon asked the figure. He didn't like playing dumb, but perhaps there was something he was missing.

"Shh!" the man hushed him, "Hold on!"

He pushed Leon against the corner between the wall and the door and watched through the bars of the window as two crimson heads leapt into view. They sniffed and croaked as they looked around, touching everything with their bloody fingers, their eyes glowing as they searched in the darkness. One of the crimson heads stopped to examine a dumpster. It cocked its head as though it were curious, then motioned for the other to leave. The man waited, pressed up against Leon for several awkward moments until he was sure they had passed.

"I don't have a clue, kid," he said, locking the door and drawing the blinds, "One day they're reporting attacks in parks and school playgrounds, the next this city's infested with…zombies."

Leon got a good look at the man. He was slightly robust, and looked exhausted. Bags under his gray eyes, his black hair a mess atop his head. He was unshaven, his stained shirt barely kept in by his torn suspenders and ragged jeans. He smelled like onions and bad cheese. Nonetheless, it was better than the rotting stench that waited for them outside. Jesus that sandwich smelled good.

"So, you've been here this whole time? How long has it been?" Leon asked as he began to look around for .357 slugs.

"Well, shit _really_ hit the fan four days ago. I was here when it happened, just shut my blinds and locked my door. Oh and don't bother lookin' for weapons, kid. Unless of course you think throwing boxes will stop the dead."

"You didn't try and help anyone?" Leon brought his gaze back to the man who still stood at the door.

"Why so they could steal my shit? No thanks, though now that everything's gone, sure I'll let anybody stay. You can, if you want. Don't worry about anything, I'm keeping a close eye on things," the man said, scratching his stubble.

A deep, guttural moan croaked softly. The two men stared at each other until it died. Kendo turned towards the blinds, removing one hand from his shotgun, reaching past the drawstring, his fingers inserting themselves between two blinds. He opened them.

Suddenly the blinds seemed to dance and wither as an explosion of glass penetrated the silence and arms broke in through the blinds. Leon stumbled back and fell against the counter, immediately drawing his magnum. He watched as the arms grabbed at the man, clutching at anything: his shirt, his legs, his shoestrings, his hair. One grabbed at his finger, bending it until it began to crack and touch the back of his wrist. Kendo screamed, suddenly both his arms bound by the bloody, rotting hands that clutched at him from beyond the blinds.

"Kid! Help me! Help me!!" he pleaded as one grabbed at his face, the fingers penetrating his lips and pulling at his cheek.

Leon grabbed the man's free hand and pulled back, aiming his magnum and pulling the trigger. Nothing. Even the click was silenced amidst all the chaos. Leon dropped the gun and grabbed onto Kendo with both hands, trying to pull him back into the shop.

The door was suddenly thrust open, the wood splitting where the lock was, and they began to come in. Slowly they sauntered towards Leon as he pulled at Kendo, the man's face slowly being shredded by the increasing number of hands.

The zombies reached Leon, their fingers and hands searching and groping, their mouths gaping and closing in. Leon was encased, and he felt Kendo slip from his grasp as he was pushed slowly to the floor, his hair pulled and his legs bound by arms. A hand cupped his mouth and pushed his chin up, revealing his neck that encased the pulsating blood. All the while, Kendo's gurgling screams pierced Leon's ears.

Desperately, his free hand searched for anything amidst the broken glass. He felt the shotgun, and whipped it up, firing blindly at the mass atop him. Blood splattered on his cheek, and he felt something small and hard bounce onto his forehead. He realized they were teeth just as he felt the restraint on him loosen, and he rose and swung violently with the shotgun. He was freed, and he stood, shoving the nearest zombie into a counter.

He didn't know how many there were in the darkness, and he didn't care. He turned for the backdoor he had spotted, and ran for it. Behind him their moans cried out, and one last stifled gurgle from Kendo. Leon slammed into the back door blindly, opening it and running out.

000

Mr. Deathstood amidst the remains of the apartment, breathing heavily. Every breath into his gas mask swelled up to his face, polluting his nostrils with apprehension. He clutched his assault rifle, feeling it quiver in his white-knuckled grasp.

He wanted to kill. He needed to kill. But the target was not present. The target had yet to even reveal himself. The target had yet to unmask himself as the carrier that he was. Come on, Perfect Soldier, proof is required. Hunk was bitter as he continued to search the target's apartment.

Leon Scott Kennedy. The foul sound of that name was painfully ignorant. It had such purpose, such existence…yet it was so futile. That name was a fake, an identity that the Perfect Soldier may have, at some time used, but was inexistent to now. Or should be inexistent.

Mr. Death had come to be apartment first to find more information about this Perfect Soldier. Of course, the information he had received at debriefing was vital but meager. He required more, to hunt this target. He needed more than age, sex, and blood type. He wanted to know what made this Leon Scott Kennedy tick, what drove him, what scared him, and what he loved.

Mr. Death wanted to know why it was he who was chosen as the Perfect Soldier, and not Mr. Death himself- No!  
The man stopped and clutched his skull. He mustn't think like that. He mustn't be consumed by jealousy. That was not the proper conduct of the Perfect Soldier. Yes, that's right. This target of his was no Perfect Soldier, simply an ideal theory that had been injected into the veins of a man. A mortal, god-fearing man.

Mr. Death _was_ the real Perfect Soldier, not some ex-police officer. Mr. Death had been kidnapped as a child, Mr. Death had been physical augmented, tormented, tested, trained, and honed. Mr. Death was the Perfect Soldier. He would find this Leon Scott Kennedy, and he would crush him. Yes, that is how he would prove that he is the Perfect Soldier. If there is a world's greatest predator, the second greatest predator must take him down. It is the law of the hunt.

Mr. Death returned to his immediate focus in the dark dwelling of his target. He had been to the roommate's chambers, which were coated in blood. That is most likely was set Mr. Death off. It was always the smell of blood, that got his adrenaline pumping. Now, however, he was in the target's chambers.

He had torn the place apart, looking for any information, and the result is why he became unhappy. The target was human. He had a life, he knew and loved his parents. The target was originally a bad seed, as someone might put it. He had attended military school after he was brought home by the police for illegal acts of a disgruntled youth. He had attended the police academy, he was a black belt in martial arts. He had a dog. He liked alternative rock music. He had a life.

Mr. Death clutched, in his free hand, a picture of this young man with his dog and roommate. He crumpled it fiercely, and stuffed in his pocket. Turning towards the closet, he began to tear through the clothing and the boxes. In massive swipes, he angrily destroyed everything.

Suddenly a heavy box at the very top of the closet came tumbling down and spilled out onto the floor. Papers went everywhere, tons of papers. Hunk picked up the nearest sheet and read:

"…sought to remedy inquiries and answer hypotheses on the elusive study of biological warfare; the volatile means through which mankind harms one another by way of using any natural organism (i.e. bacteria or viruses). Biological warfare has been proven (by records of confidentially performed experiments in the U.S. military) to be one of the most effective forms of devastation.

There are indeed a few flaws with this method of weaponry. An example is that biological warfare was outlawed in 1972 by the BWC, a document signed by 100 countries in order to prevent the advancement and storage in biological warfare. Take note, however, that the document states nothing against the usage of biological weaponry. A second hindrance is the duration of time necessary to epitomize the true efficacy of the weaponry is far too long when immediate action is necessary. Generally speaking, biological warfare is an incredibly powerful weapon, when properly harnessed and instilled. Nevertheless, it is bound by restrictions and a deficiency in alacrity."

It was the work of the Father, Umbrella Corporation. So, the Perfect Soldier had been doing his research. Mr. death began to dig through the other papers, looking for any clues about Umbrella's secret bio-experimentation. He could find nothing, everything was too vague and generalized. From newspaper clippings, to photographs, to documentation that was obviously stolen, Mr. Death could find nothing on Umbrella's underground facilities or their function.

The target had tried to find something he could pin on Umbrella, some form of hard evidence he could use against them. Judging from the magnitude, this was an obsession that had consumed him. Yet he had found nothing. This tickled Mr. Death, although he had to give it to Mr. Kennedy. Some of this information would have been very hard to come by. He leaned down to pick up the box when something hard fell out onto the floor with a heavy clink.

Mr. Death tossed the box aside and looked down at a plastic bag that lay upon the floor. He picked it up and looked at what it contained. A smile came his crushed face beneath the mask. It was a silver skeleton key, diamonds and sapphire at the end.

Now this was important.

Hunk pocketed the key and walked out of the bedroom. As he approached the door to leave the apartment he stopped. There he paused for a moment, before turning around.

There he turned around and looked at the dog standing in the hallway near the roommate's bedroom. He knew this dog, it was the target's pet. It was infected, and clearly the target had not seen it or he would have surely taken it with him or put it down. Mr. Death knew this, because he knew his target's personality now. He could make inferences on the target's every move, at least those that were not knee-jerk reactions.

Now he stared at a part of Leon Scott Kennedy's life. A part that whined softly, trying to growl as it looked back. It was missing a leg, and blood caked its exposed ribs and matted fur.

Hunk looked at it, watching its eagerness to live. What enthusiasm it possessed to stay amongst reality and not fall back into the cool, dark uncertainty. He stood in admiration as it even tried to defend its masters home, as if its master thought it was still alive. What a shame.

Hunk lifted the assault rifle and fired once, listening to the wet thump as the body fell.

What a shame.


	7. Chapter 6: Joseph Frost

Chapter 6

Oh man there is no fuckin' way.

Joseph Frost sucked in a bout of the warm, stale air as he pressed his back up against the wall of a long hallway on the second floor of the west wing of the Raccoon City Police Department. His sweat-soaked, AC DC shirt stuck to his scrawny back and loose shoulders. His pale eyes darted sporadically to still objects about him: stains on the floor, fingernail scratches along the wall, red handprints, a flickering light overhead, his left shoe.

Joseph had barely escaped the apartment complex let alone Trask district. Once he had reached the chaotic charade occurring outside he was able to fight his way through the mass hysteria of the dead, the living, and the liminal that strayed in between the two forms. He had known, or at least assumed, that the police station would be the logical place to run for. Unbeknownst to him, everyone and their fucking mothers had the same fucking idea.

He arrived at the police station wounded (a man had mistaken Joseph's somewhat homely appearance for the walking dead and took a stab at him with a screw driver) and utterly spent on his shotgun shells for the sawed off Remington, only to find that hordes of the same pandemonium was festering inside the walls of his once beloved workplace. Furious, Joseph decided it was best to wait it out in the sewers for a couple of days.

Jesus, the sewers. Why, oh why, did he choose the sewers? The very thought of the slithering, dank, horrific grime that he cut his way through made him shiver. It was by the skin of his teeth that he was able to survive down there as long as he did, which was only one goddamn day. That day happened to be, so far, the worst time of his life. It topped the day of the city's hostile take over, the night of the city's hostile take over, the night at the mansion, the night he found out he had contracted crabs from that sorority girl and Leon scolded him for hours on end.

Dammit, Joseph had to make himself focus. Keep in the here, keep in the fucking now. Don't let the mind wander. He pressed himself off of the wall at his back and faced the partially ajar door that stood along the other wall of this hallway. He knew he had heard their forsaken fucking groans in here, even though he'd swept the entire west wing's second level at least half a dozen times. They must have figured out how to climb stairs…dammit. They were coming in from the first floor, he knew it. But hell no, he didn't dare go down to the first floor on any section of the police station. He could secure the second floor, the parts of the third floor that weren't completely blockaded off, but not the first floor. It was…well…the insatiable dead that lurked along the first floor seemed to be infinite.

Slamming his foot through the door, Joseph made an incredibly awkward roll into what he knew to be one of the break rooms. Waving the Remington about like a frantic madman, Joseph came to his knees and look around. Thankfully he had been able to get to the S.T.A.R.S. weapons locker and find a spare box of shotgun shells. His baby was given fuel again. Oh…shit.

The upper torso of a zombie, suddenly aware of his exuberant presence (though what with all of Joseph's banging and commotion, who wouldn't be?), turned on his belly and began to drag itself towards him. A thin, sheet of blood was left behind it as its entrails and shredded flesh dragged along the floor, sounding out like a wet shoe across tiles. Joseph recognized him instantly. Teabag Tayler. This fucking hot shot drove a supped up Camaro, always had on aviators and always had his flat top spiked perfectly in a matter that defied gravity. It was the same fucker that always gave Leon a hard time for being a rookie cop on the S.T.A.R.S., though in reality it was only because Tayler hadn't made it and was jealous.

Joseph smiled at the fucker, watching him whine in that deep, guttural plea as he came crawling towards Joseph's boots. Good ol' Teabag Tayler. That was a nickname that Leon and Joseph had thought up. Joseph was always joking around about how Tayler was actually a flaming homosexual who had a ritual of going to the clubs to get smashed and let other flaming homosexuals lay their balls right under his nose and their assholes right on his mouth. This process was called "Teabagging," and ol' Teabag Tayler hated him and Leon for that. Come to think of it, Joseph didn't even know Tayler's first name.

A mighty grin on his face, Joseph pumped Tayler's withered, rotting face with a blast from his boomstick. He watched as the upper torso, now partially headless as well as legless, fell in a splattering heap upon the floor. He waited until the obnoxious twitching stopped, then he checked the shirt pockets. He pulled out an I.D. badge and read aloud, "Johnson? Johnson Tayler?"

The referral to forbidden male anatomy was scarce but it was there, and allowed Joseph a much needed laugh, "Damn, Teabag, no wonder you never told us your name."

Joseph tossed the I.D. badge and made his way to the vending machines, the glass shattered by him at a previous time. He snatched up some cheap brand of chips and felt the stale, crunch inside the bag. He hopped up on the counter and enjoyed the meal, taking in the surrounding scenery of his break room gone horribly wrong. He used to sneak smokes in here back when he was a member of the elite S.T.A.R.S. If ever Chris, Barry, or even Wesker caught him they'd give him holy hell for it too.

Unfortunately, as fate would have it, Joseph was out of cigarettes. He'd gone through all of them during his one day in the sewers. The stress was nerve-wrecking. And not to mention the beer, Oh God all that beer he had stocked up on in his and Leon 's apartment. Why, God…why did he forget the beer? It sounds stupid but, Jesus, he wanted just one cold, foamy brewskie. This made him think of one other thing he missed, and one thing he missed and worried about the most. His best bud: Leon .

Joseph had tried to wake Leon up. How the hell can someone sleep through an apocalypse? Leon had been acting so strange, and come to think of it, Leon hadn't really been normal since he got out of the hospital after the incident at the mansion. He was always keeping to himself, locking himself up in his room, always sleeping. And the sleeping, God damn Joseph would wake up nearly every night to hear Leon screaming amidst the cold waters of his dreams.

Joseph had a theory that something happened to Leon when Wesker had gotten a hold of him during the incident. Or maybe it was during the moment when Leon claimed he killed Wesker. Either way, something wasn't right, and Leon seemed to only be getting worse. It was like he was…no. No, no fucking way. Leon couldn't have been infected, he's been alive for far too long at this point. That is…if he's still alive – all right stop it!

Joseph had to keep his head in the game; taking care of himself was priority number one. If there were others alive here, if Leon was alive here, it'd be different. Joseph would be determined to look after them, it was his shitty but self-acclaimed duty. However, seeing as how there was no one alive any longer, he just had to take care of his own ass. And the only way to do that was to keep his head on survival, not to think about other crap.

Joseph let out a loud sneeze and wiped his nose, trying to decide on his next choice of operations, but something made him stop. He held his breath and listened, the hairs on his back rising as his nostrils were still tingling from the sneeze. He heard something, much like a giggle or a quick squeak. Not like a little girl's squeals when she is given her most dearly wanted gift for Christmas, but…like a grown man trying to stifle an explosion on the brink of sanity. Now, only the hum of the vending machines' inner workings droned on.

Joseph stood, holding his gun close to his gut as though he were trying to hide from the evil. The break room around him suddenly seemed very small, and the tingling on his nose turned to an itchy feeling as sweat dribbled down from his bandana to the tip above his nostrils. He breathed in utter silence, listening.

Again, the warped, flattened squeak. A short burst of a titillated giggle. Somehow it knew Joseph was there, somehow it knew he was there and it knew he was afraid. It just had to wait.

Joseph, without making a sound, rose one hand from the gun and flicked the bead of sweat away from his nose.

The moment was opportune.

The wall to Joseph's left erupted in an explosion of the white dust and debris dry-wall, a frenzied demon leaping through with a maniacal grin upon which hung strands of flesh and locks of matted, red-soaked hair. The wild, beady eyes of a crimson head wound about in cyclical motions at Joseph as its bloody arms tore through the wall. It went through the fucking wall. Joseph couldn't tell if it was laughing or screaming as it tackled him, he only spun the barrel of the shotgun about and blasted a good hole into its gut.

But this fucker was big, and it didn't even falter in motion as it grabbed him. Joseph could practically feel the air as it reached down into his lungs and pulled the breath back out through his mouth and nose. He hit the floor and coughed as the crimson head began to wallop him over and over again. It thrashed and quivered terribly as it struck at him, bearing through his forearms that he held up in a measly defense. Every time his hand moved to pump the shell out of the shotgun he was struck that much harder. The pain scraped deeper and deeper each time, deeper and deeper into his tolerance. He began at last to scream as the flesh was torn wide open, and the crimson stopped and rose above him. It was at this time that Joseph got a good look at his attacker.

Oh Fuck it was Gary the Inmate.

Gary the inmate was a drunkard and a natural bar fighter. He was always in and out of jail because of improper behavior at the local pubs. It was like staring up along the legs of a behemoth as the long-haired, tattooed man-turned-monster growled back at Joseph. Joseph had always given the alcoholic brawler shit for being such a failure at life, what with being in jail every night and never knowing when to quit. It was now that Joseph could almost see the hate in the crimson head's eyes. Gary had been turned, and had been forced to evolve into ragilistic monster; but was part of that monster still Gary the Inmate? Could he recall all the times Joseph had given him shit? No way. Joseph knew it had to be impossible.

Then Gary smiled at him.

No Fucking way.

The demon reached down with its massive arms, picking him up by his shirt. Joseph, trembling, tried to pump his shotgun, but he couldn't even clutch it hard enough. He was barely able to hold on to it as Gary the Inmate hoisted Joseph up over his wet, matted skull.

"Oh fuck no," Joseph pleaded.

But it was too late, and Gary sent Joseph through the wall. He felt the sharp crack of dry wall, the explosion of dust as he was sent through the wall between the beams of wood that still splintered upon the impact. Then he was in the air, falling. Then, for a second, it was nothing but air as Joseph found himself in the hallway outside. He collapsed amidst the debris on the floor and lay there, still clinging to his unpumped shotgun.

It then occurred to him that he was not alone in this hall, and looked up to see two figures. The figure of a young girl holding the hand of another figure: a beautiful and familiar young woman in red leather jacket.

It was then that Gary the Inmate burst through the remnants of the wall and howled upon his warpath.

000

Claire clutched tightly to Sherry's hand as they wandered the destitute halls of the Raccoon City Police Department. It was a dim setting of old furnished wood and brick. The smell of office work and must seemed to mingle well with that ever-forceful stench of death and rotten chemicals. Sherry huddled close to Claire's side as they walked warily through the old building. In Claire's other hand she clutched Smith and Wesson Revolver Magnum, it's hot barrel still smoking from the emission of it's last three shells used to take down a couple of the walking dead. They had tried to mangle Sherry when Claire was looking over some computer files at the reception desk in the main hall of the department.

They had entered the police department via a sewer's passage way. Claire had recalled her brother's constantly telling her of the underground passageways that led to all sorts of places beneath Raccoon City. Places that even the government didn't know about. At this in time, Claire was ready to believe everything, and so she had taken Sherry through the sewers without question. Thus, she arrived from the orphanage to the darkened, blood-stained halls of the Police Department. She had hoped it would be safe. She was wrong. It was, however, vast. This provided the two of them enough distance to run.

Once they had arrived in the main hall of the Police Department, Claire had picked up the revolving magnum from what she had assumed to be two dead police officers. They had been…thoroughly devoured. She then proceeded to look through the computer files for any notifications or anything. Any way she and Sherry could escape. Even, with hope, some information regarding the mysterious death of her brother Chris. But nothing useful was found other than she was able to unlock most of the doors electronically.

Unfortunately, the corpses turned out to be closer to life than Claire had originally assumed. They had attacked Sherry, who was aimlessly wandering the main room. Claire was able to finish them off, but Sherry had been terrified and now was refusing to remove herself from Claire's hand. That was all right with Claire.

Now the two traversed throughout the Police Department. So far, there had been no other interactions with danger. Such tranquility, however, in a swiftly prospering necropolis, was a temporary setting. Their own placidity was brought to a halt when they heard, in some distant hallway of the massive police department, a resounding crash. The two froze and Claire immediately tucked the little Sherry away behind a plan that stood in the corner of the hallway. They had entered into an L shaped corridor, the longer part stretching off towards two doors on either side, the shorter neck leading to a flight of stairs that led to a balcony above them. Claire knew that the balcony led S.T.A.R.S. office, and she had been secretly hoping to find some information on any of the S.T.A.R.S. members.

The entire time that the chaos had ensued throughout the streets of Raccoon City, Claire had been secretly convinced of all the stories that her fallen brother's comrades had brought back with them. Zombies, monsters, biological warfare, it was all becoming horrifically clear or at least horrifically similar. However, her racing mind was cut short by yet another tremendous crash in the distance, this one fired by gunshots. Gunshots began to punctuate her breaths and gasps as she squeezed the revolving magnum's wooden handle.

There was a brief moment of silence, which seemed to linger on for a few terribly long minutes. Claire looked at Sherry, the beautiful little girl's bright emerald eyes staring back at her, their surface soaked in tears and the skin around them pink from crying hard. Looking at Sherry's mesmerizing eyes, Claire suddenly felt taken in by how unnaturally beautiful they were. They just seemed so-

Suddenly, from above, the entire balcony seemed to erupt into splinters of wood and dry-wall debris as two figures came sailing in, roaring with screams and shotguns blasts. Claire recognized the screams as belonging to one of the fast-moving flesh eaters she had encountered before. She was barely able to glimpse the two entangled figures for a second, as the inclination in her intuition was tugging at her to leap before Sherry and protect her.

Sliding through the falling debris, she shielded Sherry from the oncoming figures that tangled violently with each other in the air. They landed with a shuddering slam into the wood floor, the flash and sound of one last gun shot resonating throughout the hall. Dust and debris clouded the air, and Claire found herself desperately moving to protect Sherry and aiming the revolver at the same time. The revolver quivered in her grip. For a moment they hung suspended in uncertainty, as once more the silence kept them. Then the dust began to settle, and Claire glimpsed some of the debris moving as one of the figures attempted to rise.

"Don't move! I've got a gun!" she screamed, forcing authority into her voice.

The figure raised its hands, "Relax, lady. I killed it."

Icy cold relief splashed over Claire and the weight of the gun forced her to drop it as she exclaimed, "Joseph Frost?!"

The tall, wiry figure of the goofy-grinned man turned to face her, dust covering him from head to toe. His legendary bandana was torn and skewed awkwardly atop his head, and his grin was faded and fatigued but still there.

"Claire Bean!" he said, "Holy fuck, you're alive!"

He approached her, picking up his shotgun and her revolver as he did. Claire noticed a series of cuts and bruises as well as bloody bandages randomly placed along the ragtag remains of his body. Handing her the revolver he spoke first, "Shitting Jesus…of all the people I thought I'd ever see again, you were low on the list! I thought for sure, by now, I was all alone in this shithole."

"I know, me too," she replied in surprise that he could converse so easily after what had just happened, "We came here because it seemed the most logical place to go and…uh…"

She trailed off as she watched him rip out several large splinters of wood that had been sunken into his skin because of the tussle. As he did he spoke, "Anywho, yea seems like everyone else in the city thought so too, only problem is it seemed like they all turned to the walking fucking dead halfway here. Wait-…what do you mean 'we'?"

Claire turned to Sherry who still remained hidden behind the bush, "Sweetie, it's okay. This is a friend of mine. He's not a bad guy."

Joseph's eyes widened as he saw the little girl shakily peer out from behind the bush and then run to clutch Claire's thigh in a rather cliché manner. Claire, high off of her maternal instincts, brushed away little bits of debris that had fallen into the little girl's beautiful golden hair.

"You-...Holy fucking shit, Claire! You brought a little girl with you?!" Joseph exclaimed pointing at the child.

Claire immediately punched him hard in the shoulder and he howled in pain at the surprising force behind it.

"Don't swear in front of her! And yes!-"

"You punched me! Jesus Christ Claire that-OW!! You just hit me again! Why?!"

"You swore again!"

"Jesus Christ is not a swear-OW!! Dammit, Claire quit-OW!…okay that last one was deserved."

"Anyways, this is Sherry Birkin, she lived at the orphanage where I worked…" Claire explained their story to Joseph as they made their way through the halls of the Department's west wing.

Once safely inside the cluttered office of the S.T.A.R.S. members, Joseph collapsed back in what used to be his chair at what used to be his desk. Now it belonged to some fuck named Frank.

"There's sodas and uh...I think luncheables inside that mini-fridge," he said with a nod as he eyed the little girl still clutching Claire's leg.

Claire sighed and ran her fingers through sherry's strawberry-blonde hair, "Sweetie, are you hungry?"

Sherry, staring right back at Joseph, merely shook her head.

"She doesn't say much does she?" Joseph said as he rummaged through the desk, looking for items to thieve.

"Would you be talkative if you went through a traumatic experience like thi-..."

Joseph merely looked at her in arrogant annoyance.

"Oh, right. You already have," she smiled as she brought Sherry over to the refrigerator, making their way around the many filing cabinets and scattered papers, "Why is this place so trashed?"

"I came in here as soon as I reached the police department," Joseph leaned back and threw his boot-encased feet up on the desk, "I was searching for evidence that would link the Police Chief Irons to the incident at the mansion."

"You're still the conspirator I've always known you to be..."

"Hey, the guy was in on it. I know it—he is on the payroll of Umbrella Corp. That's why he fired every surviving S.T.A.R.S. member as soon as we came back. And these new 'more elite' S.T.A.R.S. members he's got replacing us? They're fishy too. Something tells me they're part of some secret army Umbrella's building."

Poking a straw in a juicebox to go along with a stale meal of crackers, cheese, and turkey for Sherry, Claire looked at Joseph with reaffirmed amusement.

"Joseph," she spoke, "Let's not talk about this. Now's not the time."

"Yea, all right," Joseph spoke slowly, making a monumental effort to dilute his words of all the passionate swearing, "Look, I've been here since for three days, and I think there might be a way out."

"Great, where?"

"It's through the sewers."

Claire collapsed in a chair near Joseph and slumped down on the desk, "Great...not too keen on the sewers."

Playing with his shotgun, he responded, "It's better than the streets. There's a weapons room in the lower levels, we can hit it up as we make our way down to the basement. Once there I can send you and the kid on your merry way."

She looked appalled, almost horrified that the newly found companion would so soon hint at leaving them, "You're not coming with? Why not?"

"I...uh..." he laid the shotgun down on the desk and kept his eyes fixated on it as he spoke solemnly, "I'm waiting for a buddy of mine. I told him to meet here when the attack first happened and I've sorta been hanging out here ever since."

"Oh..." Claire looked at Sherry, then around the room until her azure eyes reached the S.T.A.R.S. mural on the wall, "Was it Leon?"

"Is. _Is_ it Leon, not was. And yea," suddenly he looked up at her and scrunched up his face in inquiry, "How did you know?"

It was Claire's turn to look somewhat solemn. Ever since Leon had stood her up on their date she had been in a huff about it. What a complete jerk; but now she felt somewhat sympathetic for both Joseph and Leon. No one, not even a really hot jerk, deserves to be caught up in this necropolis. And his friend didn't deserve this torment.

"Joseph," Claire spoke softly, "Do you really think Leon would want you waiting for him like this-"

"Stop right the fu-…er...uh stop right there. Don't tell me that Leon would want me to leave, because back in the mansion three months ago I wanted him to leave me behind too. But he didn't, he came back and saved my ass. Uh…sorry..I mean butt. Anyways, I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for him. So I'm waiting right here in the police department until he comes. No questions asked."

Claire only sighed and watched as Sherry stepped quietly past her and up to Joseph. It was strange, but Sherry seemed to have shed her infamous fear of adult males, as well as strangers. The little girl looked up at Joseph with her beautiful, inquisitive eyes.

"What do you want, kiddo?" Joseph asked with a cocked eyebrow.

"If he came back for you why don't you go out there and look for him?" she suddenly asked, her tiny voice sounding innocently interrogative towards Joseph.

Claire watched half amused and half sympathetic as Joseph's eyes widened a little before he spoke, "Kiddo…have you seen what's outside? And I don't mean the dead people…I mean the monsters."

Again to Claire's surprise, Sherry nodded. It was strange to see the little girl so suddenly full of confidence.

"I bet you have," Joseph continued, unsurprisingly poor in dialogue with a child, "You know I've already been through that nightmare once. I spent a day and a night out there, and I can't even count how many times I wanted to scream. I'm waiting here now, and in my book that's brave enough. So don't you question me-"

"Joseph stop, you're scaring her," Claire interjected firmly.

"She needs to be scared, Claire. We all do," Joseph replied, and Claire could see the building, quivering fear in his eyes. He looked sick in the head.

However, before she could respond or even consider taking Sherry away from him, the door to the S.T.A.R.S. flew open and Sherry screamed.


	8. Chapter 7: Bad Men and Good Men

Chapter 7

Leon Scott Kennedy stood in the doorway of the S.T.A.R.S. office, his blood-soaked t-shirt sticking to the aching muscles beneath. The veins on his arms bulged and pumped beneath his skin, and his brilliant emerald eyes made attempts to topple over backwards into his head. He shook uncontrollably. His fingers like quivering branches clasping the smoking shotgun that hung emptied in his grasp.

"Leon!" Joseph exclaimed.

Leon looked at him, irresolute. His composure in shambles, he looked decrepit as though his morale took a severe beating and displayed it via his lacerated body. His hair wet and tangled with blood as it hung before his face. His mouth open and salivating with sticky, crimson saliva. He made no reaction to Joseph's cry, only turning his empty glance to the pretty girl clutching the child at her leg. The room swiveled, and Leon plunged into blackness as he felt his body topple into Joseph's arms.

For once, the smell of cigarette residue on his friend gave him comfort.

"What are you doing?"

Joseph's nagging voice etched with concern.

"I'm just cleaning his wounds."

That voice. Soothing but…alive.

"Quit fucking with that, you're gonna make him bleed more-"

"Shh. You'll wake Sherry."

"Are you kidding? That kid sleeps like a rock, look at her. She looks dead-"

"Joseph!"

"What? She does! See? You squealed and she didn't even wake up."

"…I did not squeal."

_"Oh, Joseph! Oh! Don't wake the child!"_

Joseph's scraggly, shrill attempt at a woman's voice was silenced by the dull sound of a fist to his arm. Only for a moment, however, as Joseph was persistent.

"Claire you are the hottest Dudette I have ever seen."

"Excuse me?"

"You are hot, and you are a woman who acts like a dude. A dudette."

"I don't act like a dude. I'm just better at everything than men are. You mistake it for masculinity because you've only seen your barbaric comrades perform the feats I excel at. A woman being your successor is too much for your mind to take, and thus you fall victim to the assumption that I'm a dyke or a tomboy or…a dudette."

"…Or a bitch—…ow! Quit hitting me!"

"Quit swearing."

"Not a possibility. I'm just that awesome."

"No, you just can't express yourself verbally, so you rely on the unorthodox blending of transient slang."

"Oh yea, psh. And I suppose that all those unnecessary words that make up, like, three-fourths of whatever comes out of your mouth is unique? You sound like any little college kid who's got something to prove."

The battle of book-smarts vs. street-smarts was relaxing, depicted through the idly phasing words of the two hovering over Leon's weary body. It flowed easily like a river, like the blood in Leon's veins that he felt gradually return to a steady stream. He let himself submerge into whatever dreams waited. It's not a dream.

000

_His converse sneakers sloshed in the puddles that had formed along the uneven concrete of the alleyways. The rain had dissipated, slightly, the droplets echoing like chimes as they fell amongst the city's shoulders. It was dark, Leon could barely see as he advanced, clutching the shotgun in his hands. He had barely escaped Kendo's Gun Shop without being bitten, and he was thankful he got away with a new toy—although a little upset that he had lost his desert eagle. _

_His wet clothes stuck to his shivering form, his long hair tangled in moist groupings before his green eyes. He could see his breath as it broke out amidst the foul air. The wind whispered as it weaved through the alleyway, carrying on it the moans of the undead and caws of scavenging crows. He passed a chain link fence that caged a small basketball court in the middle of this labyrinth of alleyways. He was in between the buildings that made up the busier district of Raccoon City. The main drag was on his left, and another busy street was to his right. The buildings on either side of him were mostly mom and pop shops, and in between was a series of apartment buildings and storage facilities. It was built so no cars could go through, and thus it was merely a twisted labyrinth of alleyways with barred windows, graffiti, brick walls, and trash. _

_As Leon went on, he thought more about what had happened at the Gun Shop. That man had died, he was turned right in front of Leon, and Leon knew that he did not prevent it. He didn't save the innocent bystander who was simply swallowed in the catastrophe that Leon had helped to ignite.What was he becoming? Was the virus inside effecting more than just his body? Was his mind also succumbing to it's evil? Was it really evil?_

_Of course it was. What a stupid, fucking question. How could he question the terrible things it had done? How could he allow himself to become so callous? _

_Leon stopped and leaned against a wall, brushing his hair from his eyes. He sighed heavily, and checked the shotgun. He'd also managed to snag a box of shotgun shells, and with the shells still in the gun he had a total of twenty-two. That wouldn't him too long. Survival comes with a high price. _

_That sounded like something Wesker might say. Leon had paid a terrible price for his survival, and all along his journey through the abandoned city of dead, he ached with guilt at the thought that he was to blame._

_Something popped and cracked in the distance. It was short, like the sound of distant thunder. Thunder…_

_Leon had only a second to react, and he collapsed against the pavement as the hot whistling of a bullet shot just above him. The wall he had been leaning on cracked and flakes of brick broke off and fell upon his shoulders. He knew what it was._

_Long Ranged Weapon. It came from the east._

_Leon heard another crack and he hurled his body into a pile of trashbags as the pavement where he once lay was broken in pieces by bullets. _

_Move._

_He got up and sprinted down the alleyway, hopping the fence and into the basketball court. The thought of someone watching his back framed and marked with crosshairs made him shiver as he bounded across the court. They were going to shoot, they were going to shoot, fuck._

_Move faster._

_He heard the crack. Louder now._

_He was driven to his knees, his legs suddenly buckling, distracted by this new agony. He'd been shot._

"_No," he murmured in gasps, dropping the shotgun and clutching his side. _

_The rain poured into the smoking wound as Leon screamed, blood slipping from between his fingers as he grabbed at it. The rain made it feel cold and ache terribly._

_Behind him, the gate to the court opened. _

_Fuck the pain. Leon grabbed the shotgun, tearing through whatever physical dismay pushed him down, and took aim. _

_His opponent was too fast, and Leon was sent spinning to the ground as another bullet tore into his arm that wielded the boomstick. It clattered as Leon hit the floor, and he watched it slide away on the pavement. Out of reach._

_He lay in a puddle of his blood now, watching the rain dilute it and take it away to a nearby drain, watching his blood go the sewers. Leon, on his stomach, tried to push himself up but a heavy boot forced him back down. The boot was fierce, it was solid like stone. Like something he couldn't bend or break._

_Nonetheless, Leon forced himself to turn over, punching this force in the knee and forcing it to roll away. Leon stood and faced his new opponent. In the shadows all he could see was the circular, red eyes of a black gas mask. The figure held a smoking rifle, his breath visible as it vacated the mask in steaming fumes. They were in darkness, facing off at one another, sensing each others primal animosity._

"_Who are you?" Leon asked._

_The man in black did not speak. However he looked at Leon not as his equal, but as his prey. Even through the lifeless red eyes Leon could see the callous hunger, the cold, automaton drive that put fear in him. _

_Lightning flashed as the rain poured. In the white, Leon saw a hundred faces at the chain fence. Zombies. all of them were crowded at the fences of the court in the alleyways, their hands and fingers reaching out in hunger. Their eyes and bone glowed in the darkness, the gore and lack of flesh on their moon-pale skulls could barely be seen in the shadow._

_Leon kept his gaze entirely on the man before him. The man in black. _

"_I don't know who you are, and I don't know why you want to hurt me," he spoke through gritted teeth as he tried to bear the gun shot wounds, "But you're making a mistake. I'm not human."_

_As the words came, Leon's eyes began to glow. He could feel his veins as they expanded and began to pump the virus throughout his body, feeling it rush to his skull. Whether it was the rain, the attempt at his life, or the roaring chants of the dead all around them, Leon didn't know. But for some reason, he quit trying to hold back. He let the virus flow throughout his veins._

_at last the man in black spoke as he began to walk forward "You and I have something in common…"_

_Leon's fists quivered._

_As the man approached, lightning flashed, revealing his special forces uniform to wield something horrifying on the shoulder. The Umbrella insignia._

"_I'm not human either."_

_The man in black lunged. Leon roared and lashed out._

_Pain burned through him._

000

Leon opened his emerald eyes, their brilliant color free of any glistening traces of the T-virus that swam in his blood. What had happened? Where was he? He lay there, cautiously attempting to decipher the puzzle left by his fragmented memories.

His apartment. Abandonment. Cold. The virus. The man in black. The dead. Joseph. Claire.

Claire. Slowly he attempted to sit up, the rattling of agony in his stomach pleading him to lay there. Gasping, Leon finally managed to pick his back up off it's resting place, and he took a look around. He was in a very abandoned, very ransacked S.T.A.R.S office that was etched in shadow. This vision broke the flood gates for thoughts of his torn wallet that once held his police badge, Joseph's bad jokes and the terrible coffee, Chris' and Jill's subtle flirtation. Even Wesker came to mind, and Leon secretly wondered how Wesker, who had acted very much like the father of the group, could have betrayed them.

Everything had gone so wrong. Leon realized he was laying upon a desk cluttered with papers that were blotched with his own blood. He realized it used to be his desk. Now it was used by some green officer who was either dead, the walking dead, or dying. What a bitter ending to the S.T.A.R.S. legacy. Leon felt like a hero unknown. He felt like the vindictive shadow that worked tirelessly to save the unappreciative. He felt like killing something.

Leon breathed deeply, he couldn't lose control. Not again. Whoever that man in black was, he gave Leon one hell of a beating. Leon noticed the multiple lacerations along his back, chest, and stomach. He felt the gunshots to his arm and leg, and the many bruises and cuts that came with the package.

Suddenly Leon's thoughts were ushered into the back of his mind by a sound in the room. He looked up quickly, reaching for the nearest weapon. Unfortunately, all he had was a pencil. Nonetheless, he attempted to make himself look vicious as he eyed the shadows of the room, looking for whatever sinister demon Umbrella and fate had thrown his way-

"You're awake," came the soft voice of a child.

Leon was startled as he spotted the curled up ball of a little girl tucked into a swivel chair, her figure blanketed by the soft light of a nearby lamp.

"Claire was worried about you. The loud man too," she continued, "They'll be happy."

Leon put down the threatening…pencil…and adjusted himself on the desk, "Who are you?"

"I'm Sherry Birkin."

Leon froze. That name. He'd heard it before.

"Who are you?" her little voice was beautiful. It was the first sweet, comforting sound he'd heard in so long.

"My name's Leon Scott Kennedy."

"Oh," she said as if to finally understand, "That's why she was so worried about you. You're her date."

Leon cocked an eyebrow as he ran his fingers through his long hair, "date?"

The girl softly slipped out of the chair and walked to him, "You know. Dinner and a movie."

She walked right up until she was standing directly before him, looking up at his tall, broken form and his green eyes.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked pointing with a little finger at his wounds.

"Uh, yea," he said, "Thanks. I'm fine."

She paused for a moment, slowly cocking her head sideways as she studied him. Leon, surprised at how unafraid she was of a stranger, stared back. She was an adorable little child. Cute little golden locks of hair around pretty blue eyes and a soft little face that had far too mature an expression upon it. Instantly, Leon felt his protective nature coming on as he looked at her looking at him. He felt as though he needed to protect her. As though he had no other choice. It was strange. Leon always felt as though he had to protect people, but this was different. He felt bound to do so, as a sort of guardian. As he looked in her eyes, her very strange yet pretty eyes, he saw that she knew he felt it.

"It's inside you…isn't it?"

Her words surprised him a little. He played coy, "uh, is what inside me, kiddo?"

"The evil."

He lost his coyness.

"…yes."

"Are you sick from it?"

"Sometimes."

"Everyone does. Everyone has the evil. The evil makes them into monsters. Do you think that's what it's doing to you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm still here. No evil's going to beat me."

"…I think you're right," she smiled sweetly.

"How do you know about the evil, kiddo?"

She was silent at first, but his gaze forced her to speak.

"My daddy made the evil for the bad men."

"The bad men?"

"Mhm. You met Mr. Death, didn't you?"

"Who?"

"The man in black with red circle eyes. Mr. Death. He's a bad man. You're one of the good men my daddy made it for."

At this point, Leon froze again. Her father. William Birkin. The scientist for Umbrella, the creator of the T-virus.

"Your dad made the…evil…for me?"

"I guess. You have it, don't you? You're supposed to fight the bad men, aren't you?"

Leon was fucking confused. Maybe it was because his head hurt like hell, and he had over twenty wounds of various sizes on his body. He had been shot four times, and stabbed and beaten. This Mr. Death was human, as far as Leon could tell. But, either way, he was like Leon. What did Sherry mean when she said that her father made it for Leon? Did she mean specifically for him? Or was it just that he was a supposed 'good guy'?

He was going to ask her more about it but the door to the office opened and Claire stepped in with Joseph behind her. Not wanting to let on that he was infected, Leon ceased the conversation as he looked at Sherry. Sherry had put a little finger up to her lips before she turned to Claire. What a strange kid.

"Leon! Dude, you're awake!" Joseph, literally hopping over Sherry, was at his friend's side in seconds.

Leon winced as his friend wrapped his wiry arms about him and squeezed.

"I'm so fucking glad you're okay, man," he said, with his voice muffled into Leon's shoulder, "I'm so fucking glad."

Leon coughed a little, thanking God for the warmth of his friend, "I'm glad you're all right, man. I was really worried."

"Me fucking too. Jesus shits, I'm just glad you're here and now we can get out."

Joseph stepped back and Leon was able to look at the last person to greet. Claire.

Sherry had silently wandered over and reclaimed her spot, wrapping her arms around Claire's leg and looking at Leon. Claire also looked, her beautiful, icy blue eyes gazing at him in confusion. She obviously didn't know what to think. The last she'd heard of Leon was that he had ditched her for their date. In reality, Leon knew that it was because his infection had gotten so severe he'd passed out, but he couldn't really drop that bomb as an excuse.

Joseph cleared his throat in realization of the semi-awkward situation. Claire shot him a glance that he deserved and said, "Joseph, can you take Sherry to the vending machines to get a snack. I've got check Leon's wounds anyways."

"Way ahead of you. C'mon, squirt. Let's get some butterfingers."

Sherry looked nervously up at Claire, who responded, "Go on, sweetheart. Follow Loud-man. Leon's going to get undressed and I don't think you should see that."

"No one should," Joseph smirked as he playfully socked Leon in the arm, "Oh, and p.s. Loud-man is not sticking."

"Oh it so is," said Claire, "That's what she calls you. That's what you've earned."

Sherry followed Joseph out the door, "Loud-man what's a butterfinger?"

"Squirt, that entire sentence makes me upset. You don't know what a butterfinger is-?!"

The door was shut and Joseph's sarcastic rant was silenced. Claire turned back to Leon, her arms folded. Despite how mad she was, Leon still thought she looked beautiful. Her pretty auburn, brown hair fell in choppy strands around her ears and eyes with the rest of it back in a ponytail. Her deep, blue eyes gazing at him above her firmly set jaw and soft lips.

Leon attempted his best smile, but the cut on his face was a hindrance and he ended up wincing.

"I'm only bandaging you up because you deserve that much. Surviving out there and coming to find your friend is pretty admirable. But, I'm still pissed about what you did to me. Sit up straight," she spoke as she approached him and meticulously began to check his every wound.

"Claire, I didn't mean to hurt you-ow! That hurt!"

She looked up from tending to the gunshot wound in his arm. Suddenly Leon became very aware of how shirtless he was.

"Leon, you got shot in the arm. There's not a lot about this that won't hurt. Now shut up," she went back to her work.

He clenched his teeth in pain as she cleaned and bandaged the recently stitched wounds.

"Claire, listen. I know full well that you're pissed at me. But you've got to understand that I wasn't just looking for Joseph out there."

"What looking for your balls, too? Good luck trying to find those…"

"Claire, I-…"

"What? Come on, that was a really low thing to do! I confided in you about-about my brother! About my life! I had no one else to talk to, and I just wanted that! And you just ditched me? Especially with how dangerous it was getting?! You are an asshole, Leon Kennedy!"

"All right that is enough!" He shook her from him and attempted to stand up, but was too weak and ended up stumbling and tripping until he could support himself on a desk, "I am not an asshole, Claire!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really! I didn't meet you or call you because…because of the attacks that were happening in the city, okay? I had gotten attacked that day and I was trying to figure out what the hell was going on!"

Her gaze softened a little bit as she looked at him, but she was still suspicious, "Joseph said you were passed out in your apartment room. Why?"

"I…uh…" he thought for a moment, then, "I just drank too much. Up there in the Arklay mountains…I dunno it…it brought back every nightmare of that night. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat as it was. And going back up there to try and find what it was that was threatening Raccoon City…I almost lost it. I'm sorry, I know I'm a bad guy for doing what I did. I-…I'm sorry."

Her furrowed brow was gone, and she looked at him softly, almost sympathetically now. So what, he'd sort of lied. The real excuse was just as good, and he wasn't about to tell her that.

"…Leon, I'm sorry. I didn't think you were a bad guy, but…I've been wrong before and-…"

"It's okay. I'm sorry, too."

They were quiet for a moment. In the silence, Claire took Leon's hand and guided him back to the table he had been resting on. She helped him up and let her hand linger on his for a moment before taking it away to finish dressing his wounds and making sure they were fit for mobility.

At length, he spoke, "Claire, I'm glad you're okay. And Sherry, I'm glad you've taken care of her as well."

Claire smiled, and Leon thought to himself why he was still so concerned with that girl's welfare? Leon was all about protecting children but…his protective instincts felt as though they burned to ensure Sherry's safety.

"If you don't mind," Leon said, thinking of the girls' safety, "I'd feel much better if you stuck with me and Joseph from now on."

"Okay, Leon. If you need my protection I'll stay with you."

"…I mean for your safety."

"Whatever, dork."


	9. Chapter 8: MadEyed Chief

Chapter 8

"It's a surprise, Leon, that you have survived my first examination of your abilities," Mr. Death spoke in his deep, bellowing voice amidst the howls of the dead.

The tight, security of his mask gave him a comfortable feeling of seclusion from the infected world. The idea of contamination from the world's highly polluted air was more than enough persuasion to force Mr. Death to cover and protect every inch of his flesh. That, coupled with the fact that the carriers hunted these city streets like viral hordes, was even enough to make Mr. Death grimace.

"I will admit, Leon," Mr. Death continued, his own voice echoing to clear his mind of all except the mission, "Our first encounter left me surprised and impressed. These are disruptive notions that I have not felt in quite some time, and for good reason. They are a nuisance to me, an encumbrance from my mission."

Calmly he looked down at his hand, the muscles still aching and begging him to not force them to contract or stretch. The blood still stained his clothing. Not all of it was his victim's.

_He was an animal. His ragged clothing, soaked in blood and rain, barely seemed fit over his sinewy, muscular form. His long hair was more like a mane as it hung in moist groupings before the emerald gems that glowered at Mr. Death. The subject charged with a furious roar. It was apparent that the virus had finally taken over his body._

_Mr. Death leapt forth as well. _

_They met in the makeshift arena: a graffiti-stained basketball court chained in by fences and alleyways, the festering eyes of the rotting carriers staring from beyond the fences. _

_The subject leapt up and spun his legs about into Mr. Death's chest in a side-winding fashion. The blow was painfully embarrassing to Mr. Death, and instantly he made note of the subject's speed as it landed and shoulder-checked him to the ground._

_Mr. Death rolled backwards to his feet and his face met with another shoulder-check. Again, he hit the ground and was pinned as the subject began furiously beating in at his throat and face. Mr. Death remained calm, observing the fighting techniques of the subject. He fought savagely, but his moves were too repetitive. Mr. Death stopped one of the punches with a quick block and threw his hips back, catching the subject with a foot to the ribs._

_Perfect._

_He shot his foot out hard, sending the subject over his head and into one of the brick walls behind them. The subject smacked into it and crumpled to the ground, clearly not suspecting the blow. _

_Centered and calm, Mr. Death stood and walked towards the subject. With his black hand he reached down and grabbed a tuft of his wet hair, pulling back so to fully expose his throat. _

_"You're no perfect soldier," He spoke to the subject like he would an animal._

_Albert Wesker was a fool to believe in such a theory. Idealists. What a collection of dead-weight philosophers. No better then the subjects they fascinate about. Mr. Death was so disappointed in this Leon Scott Kennedy's lack of capability, that he was nearly disgusted. The subject struggled weakly in his grasp as he unhinged the machete from his belt. _

_Idealism was the fuel behind failure. It was the excrement that dreams are made out of._

_He felt no need to stall in sentiment as he raised the machete above his head to strike. This poor soul was nothing more than a fallacy spawned by the nonsensical philosophies of Umbrella's filthy visionaries. No longer was this hunt for Leon Scott Kennedy a pleasure. Now, it was just business, and Mr. Death was just taking the trash out for Umbrella. _

_Mr. Death swung the machete—_

_What happened next was nearly imperceptible. _

_The subject, originally upon his knees, his throat open and his hair in the fingers of Mr. Death's fists, became a blur. He stood and flung himself back against Mr. Death and caught the machete-wielding arm as it swung. He caught it and tucked it into his armpit, jerking swiftly in such a motion that made Mr. Death's eyes widen as his wrist snapped. _

_The world of rain, zombies, and graffiti became a blur as he was flung into the air and sent spinning to the ground. The snarling face of the subject was above him, its bloody fingers about his throat. Mr. Death reacted quickly with means to exterminate, swinging his leg towards the subject's temple, but the subject flipped away. _

_Mr. Death stood and felt his wrist. Sprained. _

_He looked with his red eyes at the opponent before him. The subject was much faster than he. _

_"But I'm stronger," Mr. Death snarled._

_Both stood as living Gods amidst the watching dead. _

Mr. Death wiped the blood from his uniform, his iron fingers edging along the perforations of his survival vest. Worthless weight—he tore the vest from his body and dropped it to the streets below. He sat perched amidst the stone gargoyles of some older building, his red eyes revealing his solid figure amidst those of stone. It was cliché, but Mr. Death saw it as fitting. He was part of the night, though more a demon than a guardian.

And yet, he was more human than Leon Scott Kennedy. The name burned Mr. Death's ego. No longer would he refer to Leon as 'the subject', for such a title was depreciative of the demon's abilities. For once, Mr. Death felt less than perfect. No longer was he alone on his divine level of power. He had an adversary that traversed the same plane. Not an equal, no, but surely a force to be reckoned with.

Albert Wesker had some weight to his pathetic notion.

This untamed beast had the potential to be the perfect soldier. Should the T-virus inside of Leon harmonize with whatever lingering human intellect he had left, he would be perfect. Mr. Death could see what Umbrella would do; they would sculpt and hew every aspect of the potential until he was ideal. The very ideal that Albert Wesker had envisioned. Mr. Death would be obsolete if the subject were to reach the clutch of Umbrella's gnarling fingertips.

Furiously, he swung a fist against the jaw of one of the nearby gargoyles. The statue crumbled against the strike, falling to the tattered streets below.

This could not happen. Mr. Death was the perfect soldier. He would prove it. He would kill this wild animal, exterminating it and any notion of its involvement with Umbrella.

He would thus prove that he was the perfect soldier, and secure his place in the roots of Umbrella's legacy.

Leon Scott Kennedy must be eliminated.

000

"Look, even if Umbrella was somehow involved in this, I don't really care. We're not staying in this city," Claire wrapped a blanket around Sherry to fend off the growing cold that slunk about the halls of the Police Department.

"Ah, Claire, you suck!" Joseph replied, "We need this! Umbrella was behind the incident at the mansion, we know they're behind the city too! Now we've got a chance to get some evidence on them!"

"How?" she folded her arms to try and neglect the cold.

"They've got some kind of headquarters here, or something. I dunno, some kind of warehouse facility-"

"It's an industrial plant where they supposedly make some of their famous remedies," Leon said quietly as he placed a newly acquired jacket around Claire's shoulders.

"Yea, bullshit they make 'remedies' there. I guarantee you we can find some evidence there that will put those faceless assholes behind bars," Joseph practically spat as he spoke.

Leon, seeing as how his shirt was tattered, wet, and stained with blood, had sought out new clothing. He had stumbled upon several discarded items throughout the second floor, as well as something to eat. He had scrounged up several cans of Spaghettios which he ate cold—however being that he was starved there was not much objection. As for clothing, he had found a wife-beater and a green, rather tight-fitting v-nekc thermal with the R.P.D. logo on its back. He had also scored a shoulder holster that enabled him to sling the shotgun from his back, as well as a shotgun. The black jacket he found, a biker's leather jacket, he gave to Claire to keep her from the creeping fingers of the chilling cold.

"Joseph, the chance that they would have any evidence on the whole…undead virus thing, is still a _chance_. There's a chance we could be wrong-"

"And even if we were right, there's still a chance they could have testing facilities dealing with biological warfare like they did in the mansion," Leon looked darkly at Joseph, "You know what that means. Test subjects."

Joseph shuddered with a sigh, "I know, I know. But, come on Leon…This is our chance to get them back."

The group still sat amidst the cluttered desks of the S.T.A.R.S. office. Joseph paced around the room frantically, as he often did when angrily excited about corporate and governmental conspiracies. Leon had sat on a desk in the corner, observing the morality of the group. More, however, he eyed Claire and Sherry.

Claire sat at another desk with Sherry upon her lap, watching the little girl draw random doodles on the backs of police report papers.

"Come on, man," Joseph suddenly was in Leon's face, his hands on the desk between the two, "Aren't you the least bit angry with Umbrella? Look what they done to us! They've ruined our lives! They've killed thousands of people! What the fuck else do I have to say?!"

Leon looked at the two girls before he responded, "Let's talk outside."

He stood and walked past Joseph, a hand extending to rest upon Sherry's head for a moment as he opened the door and exited. Joseph stormed noisily after him.

Leon closed the door behind them, running a finger through his hair to still find clumps of caked blood.

"What's happened to you?" Joseph murmured at Leon's nape. He said it like a disregarded child.

Joseph watched Leon's shoulders sigh, his head lower.

The hallway was burnt yellow in its dim, neglected state. A puddle of drying blood sat against a wall beneath a window, dried dripping trails stretching down like blotchy fingers to the puddle suggested that Joseph had killed something as it came in through the window. Even now, Leon still could not ignore his attention to the stories told by evidence—a trait that only a cop is addicted to.

"Come on, dude. Don't do this shit to me," Joseph pleaded with a breath, "I waited for you. Everyone left, but not me. Everyone died, but not me…"

Leon turned to watch Joseph saunter a ways down the hall before slumping up against the wall to look out another window. The hallway reeked of that determined grip of death.

Joseph choked a little, what he had went through had nearly broken him, "I went through so much shit…"

"Joseph-"

"And what are you doing?! You're just--…_F-Fuck you_, Leon! Everything that has happened is their fault! You're letting them go!"

Leon was silent.

"You owe me this, Leon. I…I just…jesus, man, I was so fucking scared you were dead. And now…"

A minute of composure and Joseph had found control.

"Joseph," Leon spoke, his fingers fidgeting curiously at his wound, "You saved me. Twice. That's one I owe you for."

Joseph looked at him, "Twice?"

"You put all our crap up against the door."

"Oh yeah, well it was the only plan I had."

"Speaking of, how did you think I was going to get out of there?"

"…I didn't say it was a _good_ plan."

Leon chuckled under his breath and Joseph sat down and pulled out his cigarettes—only two left. Leon sat beside him.

"Why is one of your cigarettes upside down in the box?"

"It's my lucky cigarette."

"…"

"Whenever I first get a pack I put one cigarette upside down in the pack for good luck. You can put two upside down, one for the luck and one for the fuck…but I don't smoke after sex."

"More like you don't have sex…"

"Fuck you, dude."

They were silent, and some weight was lifted from Leon's shoulders as he saw Joseph smile in the middle of lighting a cigarette.

"I am glad you're alive, dude."

"I know, and vice versa."

"…don't be gay."

"Can I have a cigarette?"

Joseph looked at Leon like perhaps he had indeed turned into a zombie.

"You fucking serious?"

"Yeah, it's been a rough few days."

"Psh, don't need to tell me twice," Joseph spoke through the butt in his mouth as he handed the lucky cigarette to Leon and lit it, "You get the lucky one."

"Yeah…listen. You know that I want to nail Umbrella with their own fucking cocks—just as bad as you. But that's not going to distract me from those two in there. You and I both know they stand a better chance of living if we're with them."

"…Yeah."

"I need your help, buddy. I can't do this without you."

At this Joseph grinned, shaking his head. It was Leon's polite way of saying 'I want to look after you too.'

"You never could do anything without me."

Leon took a very strained drag of his cigarette and exhaled. They were quiet for a minute, grinning and thanking god one another was alive. Leon softly punched Joseph in the arm.

"Gay," Joseph replied, and flicked his cigarette away as he stood.

Leon stood too—with some difficulty—though remarkably he was felt quite able.

"Oh by the way..." Joseph said.

"Yeah?"

"Are you ever gonna nail Claire?"

Leon frowned as Joseph snickered.

Sherry shrieked from inside the room, and both the men went cold with fear.

Leon bolted for the door first, feeling it splinter against his weight as he crashed in. Joseph hovered over him, wielding the sawed off shotgun he'd never once put down.

Sherry was on the floor, her nose bleeding profusely.

Claire struggled as she was pulled behind a revolving door disguised in the walls. Police Chief Brian Irons clutched her throat in his thick arm, a revolver to her head.

The door was closing as he glared with maddened eyes towards the two ex-S.T.A.R.S. members.


	10. Chapter 9: Hammer

Chapter 9

God her hair smelled good.

"Don't scream, sweetie," he grumbled through his moustache, "I'm not going to hurt you.

Liar.

Brian Irons pressed his cheek close to hers, his rough stubble grazing against the peach-soft flesh. Chris Redfield's sister. He'd seen her before, doing sisterly things like bringing her brother lunch or something of the sort. A youngin'. Still in college. Fresh.

"You're just my leverage," he smelled her again, "That's all, baby girl."

He removed his massive, quivering bicep from her throat and pressed her up against a wall of the secret corridor. It was a corridor that led from the S.T.A.R.S. office directly to Brian Iron's wing of the police station. This hidden corridor had been installed during renovation, renovation that was overseen and paid for by Umbrella. This was so Irons could keep an eye on the S.T.A.R.S. members. It was an unknown fact that Irons had worked for Umbrella as a weasel for years, tipping them off on who knew too much or who was getting wise.

"You bastard," Claire choked as she gasped for air.

Irons felt his stomach churn longingly for that bodice as he watched her breathe.

"Keep you're back to me, sweetie," he said gruffly, aiming the gun at the back of her head and tapping it just above her skull, "You know it's funny how the one phrase every man has heard every bitch ever say is 'you bastard'."

"Undoubtedly," Claire spoke spitefully, "You've heard it the most."

Irons chuckled, "And from you, I'm sure I'll hear it many more times. But relax, I don't want you dead. Despite the fact that you're kin with one of the worst cock suckers I've ever met."

He watched her slender muscles flinch, wanting to hit him. Come on, baby. Throw a punch. Make me bleed; I like it when they struggle. Come on.

Claire didn't move.

Irons sighed in the candle light of the corridor. The power had gone out in his wing of the police station, which was so big both wings had their own power sources. Thus, he had to use the archaic yet simultaneously haunting method of candles. He liked the orange warmth. It put anxiety in every victim he had brought back here. It was in Claire now.

She stiffened as she caught her breath, smelling the awful, stagnant air.

"That's right. Vile isn't it?"

"You're a sick fuck, Irons."

He shrugged, giggling, "Well, like brother like sister, I suppose. Come, we're going to have a little chat in my office."

He tapped her head as if to say 'mush'.

"Why do you want me, Irons?" the bitch didn't budge.

Irons growled and reached out for her ponytail—a perfect handle—and yanked her down the hallway towards his office.

"Move you stupid cunt!"  
Behind him, he could hear Joseph and Leon banging on the wall that he knew would never open. That thing inside him breathed again, begging him to "kill". He should. He rose the revolver—a cougar magnum—and pulled back the hammer.

No. Not yet.

Brian Irons was still a meticulous planner. He knew the rules set by himself for himself. Stick to the plan. They would die. Just stick to the plan. The thing inside him screamed.

His hand still upon Claire's ponytail, Irons began to walk her down the hall.

"What am I here for, Irons?"

"Like I said, sweetie, you're my leverage."

"Leverage? Leverage for what?"

"Leverage for getting Umbrella to notice me again. That little girl you've got with you—Sherry Birkin—she's the daughter of William Birkin," he paused and smiled behind his moustache, raising the hand and gesturing outside the walls to the entire city, "The man responsible for all of this."

000

"My daughter is in your hands now, Leon…"

He was getting sicker. Evil hath cometh and the tyranny of evil men has been delivered to the weak.

He had watched his daughter sent, by God, to the arms of a saint. At the church, he had watched her. She was safe.

For the first time in a decade, he had thanked God.

But evil still roamed free in the desolate aftermath of hell's rising.

The fury hath cometh.

Yet a light glimmers faintly.

"You're there now, Leon…she's safe in your arms. Her guardian angel…she's safe under your watch…I have deemed it so…"

He looked up at raining pouring down from the sewer grate.

"But he too cometh, from the mouth of satan himself. He brings the dark."

000

"God dammit!" Leon smashed his body again and again, rattling the walls around them in the silenced S.T.A.R.S. office.

Claire was gone. Just like that, Leon had let Claire get taken away. He'd let his guard down.

Joseph stood behind him, still holding the shotgun. Sherry was hidden behind a desk, watching Leon's rage beat against the wall.

"Dude, stop!" Joseph called, "You can't get through the door."

"Yes I can!" He slammed his fist in it to no avail—even with his heightened capabilities he felt useless.

Exhausted, he stood facing the wall, his forehead pressed against it. He panted.

Sherry crept up passed Joseph, who watched her as she moved quietly up to Leon's side.

"Mr. Leon," she said softly, taking his bloody hand in hers, "Please stop. That won't get Claire back."

Leon sighed and turned to face the girl, sitting down on the floor with her. Joseph sat against a desk across from them.

"Shit…" Joseph said, shaking his head.

"What?"

"That was Irons."

"I know."

"Well so what the fuck, man?"

"No bad words," Sherry chimed in.

Both men looked at her, bewildered.

"You promised, Claire."

"Right, ok so still…how is he still alive?"

"You mean you hadn't seen him since attack?" Leon asked.

"No. After the infected were released on the city he just disappeared."

"Have you covered the entire police station?"

"Well…"

"Joseph?"

"No. I-I couldn't! This place is the size of a city block! Only this wing and the main entrance have power. Everything else is still infested."

"And Irons' office is in the opposing wing."

"Right, so he's been hiding out there. But I don't see how he could have survived. I had to go there a couple of times to get shells from the weapons room. It's swarming with carriers."

Leon was quiet, deep in thought, unaware that his hand still protectively clasped Sherry's.

"Dude, it just hit me," Joseph said with eyes wide, "A trap door? To our old offices?"

"I know, and there's almost no doubt it leads back to his office. The weasel never left that place except to go home."

"It's messed up. I'm almost positive he was working for Umbrella. This way he could spy on us all the time!"

"That, or he's just crazy. And a perve."

"Or both."

"Look, we have to get out of here. Joseph, do you have any ideas?"

"I was planning on using one of the squad cars when you showed up, but they've all been taken or destroyed."

"Well we can't just huff it out of town."

"No, you think?"

"At least," Leon paused, knowing full well what the reaction would be, "Not on the streets…"

Joseph's eyes got huge, "Dude, no. Absolutely not—no! I won't do it."

"Come on, Joseph. We've got no other way."

"You know I hate the sewers, Leon. You know I do. The things that are down there—"

"That's all urban legends—"

"The things that are down there _now_! Forget it!"

"Joseph, it's that or we try the streets."

"…crap."

"At least in the sewers we can avoid the zombies."

"At the expense of dealing with God knows what!"

Leon stood, "That's a risk I'm willing to take."

"What about Claire?" Sherry asked worriedly.

Leon knelt down and picked her up, "Don't worry. I'm going to get her right now."

At this, Joseph shot to his feet in protest, "The hell you are! You just got here—you're still all fucked up! I'm not going to let you run away without me!"

"Joseph it's too risky to bring you and Sherry along. I can move quickly on my own, and I need you to look after Sherry."

"Why can't I go instead of you? I've wanted so bad to crack that Irons bastard right in the head! Now's my chance, my legitimate chance—and you're going?! Why?"

Leon wanted to tell him, but he just couldn't. He wanted to say because Albert Wesker had infected him with the T-virus and now he was a mutant freak with super powers…a bit melodramatic but nonetheless, he kept his mouth shut.

"Just let me do this," Leon said.

Joseph, assuming it was some attempt on Leon's part to look macho and heroic in front of Claire, gave up, "Fine, just shoo. And take my gun."

"No thanks, you'll need it more than I will. You know, just in case."

Leon walked over to a pile of 2 x 4's Joseph had used in attempts to blockade the door. A tool belt sat on the floor, and he picked it up. A framing hammer—that was all he needed. Leon took it and a flashlight sitting on one of the tables.

"This is all I'll need," he said as he opened the door, secretly quivering in fear of what Claire was going through.

"What are we going to do?" Joseph asked.

Leon looked at them, Sherry sitting on a desk against one side of the office, Joseph sitting on a desk against the opposing wall—both swinging their legs. Leon walked back and placed his hand atop Sherry's head, looking at Joseph, "Just hang out. I'll come grab you when I have Claire, and we'll get the hell out of dodge."

"Fine, but if you're going to be a douche, at least be a douche with one of these," Joseph made his way over to a steel cabinet and removed two walkie-talkies, tossing one to Leon.

Leon looked at it and smirked, "What? The babysitting job too much for you?"

"I don't need to be babysat!" Sherry cut in.

Joseph only frowned and switched on the radio, "Channel two."

Leon did the same, "Need a baby monitor so daddy can keep an eye on things?"

Joseph made a face, "Whatever, jackass. Just get back here on time, ok?"

Leon grinned, "No problem."

He left and closed the door behind him, leaving the two in silence.

"So," Joseph asked, "do you…play video games?"

"No."

"…That's just terrible."

000

Claire was thrown violently into a velvet green armchair. She watched Brian Irons close the hidden door behind him. They were in his office, which looked more like an aged study taken out of a Victorian house. Books sat decrepit in old shelves alongside the heads of animals that had fallen prey to this creep during his many safaris. She could not ignore, in particular, the face of a shaggy buffalo which glared behind with black eyes behind its fur. The smell was musty and hot, laced with cigar smoke and body odor. A fireplace popped and snickered with life, small flames permitting shadows to dance freely about the dark room.

Then Claire saw her. A white dress, spattered with blackening blood. Long, blond hair that hung matted and wet from her sunken skull and drooped over the side of the desk upon which she lay. Her intestines were exposed through holes in her clothing and flesh, prodding out like red knuckles. Claire became very afraid as she saw the girl's half open eyes looking at her, glimmering in the firelight.

"Don't mind her, sweetheart," Irons said, "She's just come to join us?"

Claire realized he was talking to the corpse.

"Who is she?"

Irons looked at her from behind the desk, lighting a cigar, "The mayor's daughter. Mr. Warren wanted me to look after her. She's safe and sound, and God isn't she beautiful?"

Claire turned away as Irons began to stroke the girl's clumped hair. When she looked back he had taken a seat behind the desk, leaning against a tattered American flag that hung lifeless in the dark.

Just keep on, Claire, just keep on.

"Why do you want Sherry?"

He grinned from behind his cigar, and Claire instantly became disgusted (more than she was already). The man sat in his office, smoking cigars and eying a dead chick while outside people were dying.

"It has to do with Umbrella, sweetie. Stuff involving her old man," he exhaled smoke, "I wouldn't worry that pretty little head of yours with it."

"She's my responsibility. And her parents…I thought they were dead?"

"Of course, that would make sense because you picked her up at the orphanage. Well they are, but before they were dead, they were scientists for Umbrella. As you may have guessed they were scientists who worked on the very projects that have infested our beloved Raccoon City."

"Like I said, what does that have to do with her?" she winced as he started playing with the fingers of the girl's hand.

He didn't respond.

The two glared at each other, Claire's pretty face firm with hate while his hate hid behind a grin and a cigar.

"Tell me!"

"Baby girl, you're wearing thin on my patience. Don't cross the line."

000

Leon kicked the locked door open, stepping into the shadows of another hallway. Windows omitted thin beams of silvery light into the room, their glow catching on the dust particles that were startled by the sudden action. The only noise was Leon's shaking breath. In one hand he clutched the hammer, in the other the flashlight which he had turned off.

In the dark he waited, closing the door behind him.

Breathing, softly breathing.

Then came the slowly sounded croak of a groan, a wet groan that gurgled in anticipation of the feast to come. The figure stepped from the shadows, tall, thin, wearing a policeman's uniform. White, dry flesh coming off of the bone in flakes shown in the window's light.

Leon lit the flashlight and it's glow showed the outstretched arms and the milky-white eyes wanting him. The flashlight was sent spinning to the ground and Leon swung the hammer round with the ripping claw forward. He struck its temple and black blood slopped out. In the strobe light effect of the spinning flashlight, Leon turned and flung the zombie over his shoulder and into the floor. Once more the hammer was raised, and once more he came down upon its skull which cracked and fragmented. The rotted brain bounced out amidst the pieces of bone and flesh.

"That's one," Leon said, and he kept moving.

000

"I'm sorry, kid, but that's just not possible," Joseph tried desperately to deliver this in the most authoritative tone he could.

"It is too, you know it would happen," Sherry responded, refusing to budge.

"No," Joseph shook his head, "Absolutely not. Spider-man could _not_ beat Batman. So just forget it."

"He could too! He's so strong, and he has web cartridges that he could use to shoot around the city! In the tv he always beats up people ten times stronger then he is, and Batman's just a normal guy!"

"Hey, Batman is not just some average dude! He is trained in, like, twelve different martial arts! The guy's mega rich and really brainy! He beats up bad dudes ten times stronger too, and without super powers."

The two still sat face to face, sitting on desks opposing each other. Joseph held his shotgun on his lap while Sherry fidgeted with a pendant that hung from her neck.

"Batman's a butthead. And you are too," Sherry mumbled.

"You're face is a butthead."

"You're mom's face is a butthead."

"…touche, kid."

000

"You're such a piece of shit, Irons," Claire practically spat, still forced to sit in the arm chair, "Chris always told me you were. He was right. But even he didn't know you were such a crazy, sadistic piece of shit."

Irons eyes slowly rose from the dead body on his table, his hand stopping along the hip of the corpse. His eyes, which had always been notoriously unreadable, became suddenly dark.

"What did you say?" he asked as he put down his cigar.

"Which part, you sick, spoiled bastard. The part where I called you a shit or the part where I questioned your sanity?"

"Shut that cock hole of yours, bitch," he rose the gun.

Claire flinched but didn't stop, "Go ahead, Irons. Shoot me. What good will I be then?"

Looking her up and down, he replied, "Oh you'll still be plenty of good."

"God, you're fucked up."

"That's enough!"

Irons knew that Claire was trying to wear down on his patience, Claire could see that. But she had to keep him unfocused and frustrated. It's something Chris would have done: keep him uneasy and furious and he will be irrational.

"Go ahead, Claire Bear," he said, "Squawk all you want, pray that your precious Leon will come and protect you like he promised."

Her eyes widened a little.

"That's right, honey. I saw your little conversation in the S.T.A.R.S. office. I've been watching you pretentious fools for quite some time."

"I'm not worried about Leon kicking your ass. If he doesn't, I will."

Irons stood with the desk between them. Claire saw it as a sign of defense. Irons was afraid. But he was also insane. Claire began to wonder just how the girl on his desk died.

"You're a fucking coward, Irons."

Too far. Claire jumped up as Irons kicked his desk sideways and crashed over it.

Leon felt the horrifically satisfying crunch beneath his sneaker—the zombie letting out a last croak as crimson oozed out along the floor.

"That's four," Leon spoke on a breath as he whirled around to catch another in the jaw with his blood-ridden hammer.

The jaw was torn lose, dangling on the hammer. The carrier stumbled back against the door Leon had been trying to reach. With a single leap Leon shoulder-checked the zombie through the door. He toppled over the helpless body, rolling to his feet into the next room.

Breathing hard, Leon listened through the dust and rot for something. Anything. He felt blood run down from the hammer to his sleeve, and he took a moment to remove the chunks and wipe the blood off.

Then she screamed.

000

He ran.

_Kill kill kill…_

Claire gasped for air as his fat fingers clamped down upon her throat. Again and again, he smacked her across the face, forcing her down to the ground.

"You're cunt is mine, bitch," he whispered into her ear, his moustache tickling her cheek.

His hot breath was rank with cigar smoke and bourbon. He reeked of panic and fury as he bore down upon her, his fingers twitching as they went for her jacket to her t-shirt. It was a strange, nauseating stench that left her with a cold burning realization that she as helpless.

She couldn't breathe. Her head begin to lose gravity, she felt dizzy. His teeth gnashed as he felt underneath her shirt, his sweaty fingers groping along her smooth skin. She was his now. His hand leapt to his belt and he began to unbuckle.

Claire squirmed and he brought the other hand up, both on her throat. He thrashed her head into the ground. Hard. Now she was lost as his hand went back to his pants.

_God…_

There was no mercy in his motion. No lingering thought of compassion. He sought flesh. He wanted to tear through it and dig out the soul inside. He wanted to relish in the agony of others and watch flesh curl as it burned.

"_There's a bit of Marquis de Sade in all of us,"_ Wesker had said.

"Get away from her-"

Leon swung the hammer like a windmill and brought it up into that stupid fucking moustache. A shot rang out. He watched Irons' head cock up towards the ceiling as he rolled backwards, blood pulling an ol' faithful from his gaping face as he screamed.

Irons tried to raise the smoking revolver he had drawn, but Leon brought the hammer down upon his wrist. The gun clattered to the floor as Irons rolled to his back in agony. He lifted the hammer again, his willpower quivering beneath the weighty idea of beating this fat fuck to a pulp.

His converse high top upon the weasel's fatty throat, Leon lowered the hammer for a moment as he hovered over his old boss.

"What are you looking for, Kennedy?" He spat beneath the weight, "What are those evil eyes searching for?"

"How long has Umbrella been buying you out?"

The grim man chuckled, "That's not even the situation. You don't know how deep you've waded from shore, boy. You'll be hard pressed to find answers this deep."

"I can certainly try."

"You don't get it. You and I are on the level. You're like me; you just don't know it yet."

Leon twisted the hammer around in his hand to bring the teeth forward as he rose it into the air and brought it up into the bastard's nose. He felt it stick so high up into Irons' skull that when the police chief screamed he felt the vibrations in the hammer. With on sturdy yank he pulled the man's face off.

The brain bounced and sloshed onto the floor with bits of the skull.

Leon was quivering with rage. Irons was still alive? Cradled up in his office while the city fell to shit? The scene of this sniveling bastard hungrily atop Claire burned him. Seeing the beautiful figure lying balled up on the floor made him instantly drop to his knees attentively.

"Claire?"

Her hands lowered from her ears and her gorgeous blue eyes opened, bathed in tears.

"Leon!" she jumped up into him, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

The impact made him fall back but he sat up, Claire now sitting on his lap. They sat there for a moment. Even though Leon had sensed it, he looked around to make sure Irons was gone. Suddenly Claire pulled away from him.

"You're bleeding!" she gasped.

"what? Oh, damn…"

It was true. Irons had drawn a gun as Leon had entered, getting off one shot before he was popped in the nose. The bullet had scathed just along Leon's left oblique. It wasn't bad—at least Leon didn't think so.

"You fucker!" she hit him and sat back on his lap, "How could you get shot again?!"

"What the hell? I just rescued you."

"Oh please, I could have handled it myself."

"Oh don't let your neo-nazi feminism misinform you."

"Excuse me?"

Suddenly Leon's radio, hanging from his belt, crackled to life, _"Leon…I'm very bored…and…Sherry's calling me names."_

_"I am not!"_ Sherry's voice chimed in.

Leaning back on his elbows, Leon removed the radio from his belt and replied, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

_"Is Claire with you?"_

"Yes, I had to save him," Claire leaned down and spoke beside Leon.

"The hell you did…"

_"Haha. Leon you bitch."_

"Shut up, Joseph. Let's just get out of this place."


End file.
